Far Behind
by Arcadia Jones
Summary: An AU taking the story of Garret Hawke and Anders as it might have taken place during the "roaring '20s." The story itself will center on the gay subculture present in America during this time period. First chapter has a more full description; not a typical 20s gangster story. Rated M for later content.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Allow me a moment to explain this story a bit so I'm not attacked for some of the terms and/or ideas I use: this is an AU story set in New York in the 1920s (Prohibition, labor strikes, Progressive movements…). That being said, this is in no way historically accurate, apart from the general ideas of the era. I'm still modeling many aspects after the Dragon Age world, but I want the feel of the story to be set in the '20s. (Make sense? I hope so, heh.)

Now, the main focus of this story will revolve around the gay subculture present in urban areas (especially New York) during this time period. Not too many people are aware that such a thing existed back in the late 1800s, but it did and it was quite expansive—and VERY different from gay culture today, in many respects. Many of the terms used back then—such as fairy, queer, etc.—were not considered offensive until the subculture began to evolve beneath the watchful eyes of the dominant culture. As such, I will be using them in the context of the story because they fit the timeline.

I just wanted to explain that a bit so I don't get a bunch of hate mail saying that I'm insensitive or ignorant or whatnot. Most of the time, "derogatory terms" did not start out as such; rather they changed with the passing of time as one culture's attempted to deface another, or whatnot.

Ok, mini-rant now done, I hope you all enjoy the story!

(And if you don't believe me or if you would like to learn more about this fascinating, understudied subculture, I HIGHLY recommend reading _Gay New York _by George Chauncey.)

One

_New York City – 1921 _

_The Hanged Man_

_September 25, 9:30 PM_

Garret Hawke had never been the type to throw himself behind a movement. Committing oneself to a lofty ideal only worked to build a cage—gilded though it may be, yet still cold and unforgiving. His way of life had always been centered on the ideas of living for the moment and seeing where the winds of change would take him.

But there were always those forces beyond his control that forced him to take a stand. God, how he _hated _those forces.

A year earlier, the city's leaders had enacted a Prohibition against the distribution of alcohol. It was a profound movement that had effectively split the population: some grateful, others bitter. Garret had found himself being pressed firmly into the latter group; after all, it was difficult to make money as a bartender when your regular patrons no longer showed their faces.

Not that the law had stopped him—or, more appropriately, his boss—from selling alcohol. They just had to be subtler about it: under the table sales to savvy customers; late-night pick-ups at secluded locations. Garret had never seen himself as a smuggler, but a job was a job and when you believed in something, you sometimes had to let go of the practical future.

It was late on a Wednesday night; the sun had long since set; the "respectable" folk had retired to their homes. Garret stood at his customary place behind the bar of the Hanged Man tavern, pretending to shuffle through his stock of legal beverages as he kept a close eye on the tavern beyond. Things were quiet overall, but that would soon change. The tavern's owner—a man who went by the name Varric—had been covertly advertising a "party" of sorts for the night and Garret was expecting a crowd to begin gathering any moment. It wouldn't be anywhere near the size the Hanged Man had once attracted in the years leading up to the Prohibition, but it would be one of the largest since.

A scandalously clad woman took a seat at the bar in front of Garret, her painted eyelids fluttering at him as her thick, red lips curled into a sly smile. Perfectly manicured, lightly painted nails tapped on the wood of the bar in front of her, somehow drawing the eye to the neck of her dress where an ample cleavage showed through low-cut silk.

"Excited?" she asked, voice a sultry purr.

"Nervous, worried, paranoid…but yes, excited, too." Garret grinned as he subtly poured the woman a shot of whiskey. She winked at him and downed the shot in one gulp, only wincing slightly as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. "What about you? Should be some good clientele tonight."

She shrugged, making even that simple gesture look alluring as her bronzed shoulders gently rolled and drew the arms of her dress just a bit lower. "I never have trouble finding customers. But you know that my heart belongs only to you, my dear. My services are always free for you."

Garret couldn't keep his gaze from her chest as she leaned over the bar, one hand reaching out to grasp at his shirt collar so that she could draw him close. Isabela was truly a master of her trade; she always knew the right things to say and the right ways to move to draw a hapless man right out of his wallet. She had been at the Hanged Man before his family—what was left of it, anyways—had immigrated to the city. When Garret had moved about looking for work, he had fallen for her tricks. Following her up to an empty apartment; head thrown back as her expert fingers worked his clothes off and brought him to completion…

And, of course, waking up confused and penniless in a gutter.

Isabela was a viper in some ways, but Garret had forgiven her long ago. It was impossible not to forgive her; not only did they work in the same establishment, but Isabela was a truly alluring figure both physically and mentally. As soon as Varric had hired him, Garret had gotten to know the beautiful prostitute's mind and the pair had become quick friends. His mother didn't approve of his camaraderie with her type—or many of the types who frequented the Hanged Man—but Garret had never been the type to let petty class differences effect the way he treated people.

Garret allowed Isabela to capture his lips in a soft kiss—even closed his eyes and inhaled her heady, womanly scent. When they parted, he smirked at her. She returned the gesture, tugging once at his collar before finally releasing him. It was a game they played often; one that Garret had learned to win, in his own little way. Any other man might have thrown the woman over his shoulder and headed up the stairs in the back to one of the many rooms Varric's establishment boasted. But ever since that first night, Garret had not really desired her in such a way again. Not just because she had duped him, but rather because he knew too much about her now to want to take advantage.

"I suppose I'm a fool to turn that offer down," he remarked, offering her a second shot.

"Yes. But you're a charming fool, so all is forgiven." Isabela threw back that drink with the same ease as the first, smiling widely as she did so. "Now I feel good! Has anyone told you what a handsome, excellent bartender you are, good ser?"

"All the time. It's why Varric keeps me around."

"Well, I'll be sure to give him my thanks. Without you, this place would be utterly boring."

Garret chuckled as Isabela moved away from the bar, striding effortlessly across the tavern toward the other prostitutes who were gathered at one of the larger tables, whispering and giggling and watching the door with eager delight. Leaning against the doorjamb was Aveline, the Hanged Man's grim-faced bouncer.

Varric was notorious for many things, but one of the most well-known and odd was the fact that he had chosen to hire a woman to police his tavern. Of course, one look at Aveline and anyone would understand why—the Irish woman was built like an Amazon, after all—but it was still strange to the "normal" populace outside the tavern's walls. Garret had been doubtful in the beginning like all the others; it had only taken one drunken night and his face being crushed into the wood floors for him to rectify that judgment. Aveline was not one to be taken lightly and though she frowned upon some of Varric's business practices, she took her job _very _seriously.

Ten o'clock rolled around and the first visitors began arriving. The very first one in was a slight man wearing the uniform of a police officer. Had he been anyone else, that might have meant trouble; because it was Fenris, Garret knew that they were quite safe. Varric and Fenris had a special arrangement that hinged around the officer's semi-alcoholic nature. So long as Varric kept the booze flowing—with an occasional slip of cash or hint of other criminal activities—Fenris kept his fellow officers' off of the Hanged Man's trail.

"Evening, messere," Garret greeted as Fenris took a seat at the bar. "What can I get you?"

"Don't play games, Hawke," he growled. "You know what I drink."

"Of course, of course. Just thought you might feel like something different tonight."

"A man can only change so much. Make it strong and quick and I'll be happy."

Chuckling, Garret poured the officer a glass of dark liquor and a shot of the same whiskey he had given Isabela. Fenris downed the shot and began sipping at the glass, turning slightly so he could keep an eye on the door.

"Any idea who's coming in tonight?"

"Nope. Varric only said that there would be more than usual. Should be interesting."

Fenris snorted. "Interesting doesn't normally denote anything good."

"Says the officer imbibing alcohol."

Garret grinned at the scowl Fenris shot him. It was always so easy to get under the slighter man's skin; he was a veritable wealth of irritation. Garret had gotten to know the man quite well in the past year; no matter how crotchety Fenris acted, he was one of the good lot overall: one of the few in authority who chafed under the reign.

The prostitutes' hum of conversation had ebbed a bit, their eyes turned towards the back stairway with mixed happiness and awe. Garret followed their gaze to where the owner himself had paused in the middle of the stairs to take a cursory glance over his tavern. Varric Tethras was a rather small figure at five-foot-four, but that didn't make him any less imposing.

It was easy for some to take his laid-back attitude at face value, always taking for granted the fact that it took more than charm and a silver-tongue to rise to his position. Garret had never personally crossed the slight Italian man, but he had seen the repercussions of some who had. It was never a pretty sight.

Varric smiled warmly at the women before allowing his gaze to sweep to the bar. Garret nodded his head and watched as his employer strode towards him in that smooth, easy glide the man had perfected beautifully. Varric wasn't a tall man like Garret—who stood a good six feet—but in a way he still managed to overshadow the young bartender with his presence.

"Good evening, messere," Varric greeted Fenris, bending slightly at the waist. "I hope the night is treating you well?"

"Well enough," the officer replied with a grunt. "I've kept this place clear for tonight. I do expect a good tip soon, though. It's not easy covering your hide."

"But of course! Anything for you, my friend! Hawke, get the good officer another drink—on the house, of course."

"Right away, ser." Garret refilled Fenris's glass; the pale man nodded at Varric—glared one last time at Garret—and then moved away from the bar to find a table in the back. Isabela watched him walk from the prostitutes' table, dark eyes gleaming with sinister intent.

"So, is everything prepared?" Varric aimed the quiet question at Garret though he faced away from the bartender, smiling at the few customers who had arrived thus far. "I want the night to go off without a hitch."

"Ser, you wound me! Don't I always come through?"

Varric chuckled. "That you do, my boy. I'm just making sure you haven't let that cocksure attitude get to your head."

"Ah, too late for that." They shared a conspiratorial smile. "But I assure you, everything will go wonderfully so long as Fenris keeps his word."

"Don't you worry about him. He's got just as much to lose as we do if his plan fails. Just make sure that everyone's kept happy and drunk."

"Except myself, of course."

"Smart boy."

The tavern door opened and a group of men and one woman stepped in wearing heavy, expensive-looking coats. Varric slid away from the bar to greet them, making a swift motion with his hand to Garret as he moved. He recognized the silent command immediately and began discreetly filling up glasses of scotch—one for each of the men. Garret arranged the drinks on a tray before moving out from behind the bar to approach the table.

Varric sat in a seat that allowed him to keep an eye on the door, though he appeared to have his full attention on the four men and woman seated around him. The men were all mostly middle-aged and wore very fine suits. A couple of prostitutes glided over to take their coats, letting fingers linger and eyes flutter suggestively as they did so. None of them quite reached the finesse Isabela claimed, but they were all very good at their jobs. Varric allowed only the best to work in his tavern, not any common tramp off the street.

Garret finished setting down the glasses and turned towards the woman to ask her pleasure—when he realized his mistake. He froze in place, unable to keep from gaping at the _man _who looked up at him with a pair of haunting honey-colored eyes. Long, golden hair framed a narrow face—with a light layer of stubble across his chin, now that Garret had a closer look.

It was obvious the man was a fairy from the light make-up that covered his lips and long lashes; the feminine way he was dressed. Normally that fact might have made Garret balked, for he had been to the downtown bars on occasion where the fairies sold themselves to transients and sailors, always so polite and yet far more aggressive than any normal prostitute. But for some reason, he couldn't stop staring at the man's face: he was breathtakingly beautiful enough to be a woman.

"Please excuse the boy," Varric said as the men fidgeted uncomfortably beneath Garret's unmoving stare—all except the fairy, that was, who smiled up at Garret in a way that made the young man's cock twitch. "Hawke, why don't you go and prepare the bar? I'm sure the others will arrive soon."

Reluctantly, Garret tore his gaze away from the fairy, bowing respectfully as he apologized. When he straightened once more, Garret tried not to look directly into those bewitching eyes as he asked the fairy what he would like to drink.

"Some brandy, if you have any," was the man's reply, and God, but wasn't his voice just as poignant?

"Y-yes. Right away."

Garret hurried back to the bar where Isabela waited for him, laughter in her eyes. She waited until he had served the fairy's drink and returned permanently to the bar before starting in on him:

"Oh, but aren't you just so _adorable!_"

"Shut up, Izzie."

"How can I stay silent after that little show? You fancy the man, don't you?"

Garret blushed furiously. "Of course not! He just…took me by surprise!"

"And how is that? Fairies are everywhere nowadays. Thanks to that scandal after the Great War, they get more business than I do." Isabela pouted a bit, which only managed to make her look even more beautiful. Normally that look would make Garret feel a little hot under the collar; right now, he couldn't get those honey-colored eyes or that silky-smooth voice out of his mind.

"I know. It's just not often that we see them around these parts. Varric won't hire them."

"Oh, don't be so sure of that. Serah Varric has been sniffing for new blood lately and he is nothing if not pragmatic. Fairies bring in a good amount of business and business is what it's all about."

Garret rolled his eyes, allowing his gaze to roam across the room. _I'm just making sure no one needs a drink, _he assured himself. _That's it. _Convinced, Garret's eyes passed over the table where Varric still sat—only to meet the liquid gaze of the fairy. Those eyes bored into his very soul, digging through all the layers of Garret's mind as if baring everything he was to the world.

"You really are adorable, Hawke," Isabela remarked, allowing Garret to tear his gaze away from those haunting eyes. "Go talk to him. I bet he'd be receptive to your advances."

"What makes you think that?"

"Who wouldn't be? You're sweet and dark and handsome—all the perfect things my kind hope for in a customer."

"And what makes you think he's a prostitute?"

Isabela winked at him. "Honey, I know a lot of things that you will never be able to understand. Just take my word for it."

"Isabela! Why don't you come over and meet our guests?"

The bronze woman rolled her eyes as she rose to her feet. It only took a matter of seconds for the woman to set up her professional persona: lidded, bedroom eyes; pouting lips; dress straps lowered just enough to give a teasing view of her full breasts. When Isabela walked, all eyes were on her: hips swaying just right, fingertips brushing against the bodies she passed—man or woman—with little murmured words that were just for you. Even Garret was affected by her though he was used to the act. It was impossible _not _to be.

Within a few hours, the tavern was busy. A couple of the prostitutes—who had yet to find a customer—had been relegated to help Garret serve everyone, acting as elegant waitresses to the many clients seated around tables. It was a tame affair overall with Aveline watching the patrons for any signs of rowdy play. Her attitude ruined the fun a bit, but then that was what Varric had hired her for.

"_I don't run a bawdy house," _the man had remarked once. _"This is a respectable joint for respectable folk. We only do the vulgar business on weekends."_

Garret placed one of the girls—a pretty, young thing named Norah—in charge of the bar so he could restock their supply from the back room. When he returned—several bottles of different liquors held in his arms—it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to drop them all on the floor and cause a scene. The fairy had moved to the bar during his absence, honey-colored eyes laughing at him from behind the rim of a brandy tumbler.

"Are you all right, ser?" Norah asked, moving to help Garret set the bottles down.

"Y-yes, fine. You can return to work now. I can handle things from here."

The young woman glided back to the tavern floor, migrating to a table full of young, affluent-looking men who looked at her scandalous dress appraisingly. There were a few other customers at the bar, but they were either occupied in deep conversation with one another or one of the prostitutes. Essentially, Garret was alone with the fairy who continued to watch him as he sipped delicately.

"You're German, aren't you?" the man asked in that sinfully beautiful voice.

"I am."

"Mmm. I can see it in your shoulders and jaw. Always a distinct look to Germans. Were you born there or in the states?"

"Munich, though my family immigrated here when I was young." Garret felt strange having such a normal type of conversation with this man. "Um…what about you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm from nowhere special." He didn't elaborate and Garret didn't press. "So, your name is Hawke?"

"What? Oh! Uh, yes, that's my family name." Garret fought back the burning in his cheeks. "My given name is Garret."

"Garret? Oh yes, I like that. A strong name." The fairy extended a slender hand across the bar, palm down. Garret couldn't help but stare at the long, tapered fingers and alabaster skin with a hunger burning deep in his gut. "You can call me Anders. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The way Anders had offered his hand insinuated that he expected Garret to kiss it, as one would a proper lady. But no matter how much a part of him desired to taste that smooth skin, Garret couldn't bring himself to comply and awkwardly grasped the ivory palm in a clumsy handshake. He half-expected Anders to look offended, but the fairy only smiled warmly.

"How long have you worked here, Garret?"

That voice, saying his name… "A-A few years now."

"I can guess at your view of Prohibition," Anders continued, sweeping his hand elegantly around the room where the many customers sipped at their illegal drinks, "but perhaps you can indulge me with a more detailed expression?"

"Um, well…I…" Garret cleared his throat nervously, wishing that he was doing something with his hands. Any kind of distraction would be welcome right about now if it meant saving him from making an ass of himself in front of this bewitching man. "I think it's a foolish law, I guess… I mean, outlawing something only makes people want it more—especially in this country. The government is only hurting itself, because now they don't receive any tax revenue from the alcohol sales that are still going on."

"I see. And what of those who argue that it keeps men from abusing their wives and children?"

"Well…I think that if a man is capable of that, he doesn't need liquor to do it. I'm certain it doesn't help, but blaming alcohol won't change human nature. Better legislation to pass would be something against domestic abuse. Or perhaps give women the freedom to leave their husbands if they so choose."

Anders smiled. "I like you, Garret. You have a good mind."

"Um…thank you."

"Are you married, Garret?"

"No." God, why did the man insist on using his name? Every time it passed through Anders's lips, Garret felt his pants growing just a little more uncomfortable.

"No? Truly? That must be a crime somewhere. What woman wouldn't want a handsome thing like you on their arm?"

"I…I guess I've just never really thought about it."

"Would you like to kiss me, Garret?"

The question—spoken in a low, sultry tone that only the bartender could hear—took Garret completely off-guard. Until that moment, Garret hadn't realized that he had been staring at Anders's full lips. There was no way to fight back the angry flush that rose to his cheeks now and the only thing the poor young man could do was quickly duck down behind the bar in search of a glass that needed cleaning or a drink that needed pouring—something!—anything!

When he resurfaced, Anders was gone. A part of Garret felt immensely relieved, but at the same time he felt a little despondent. Garret hadn't meant to offend the man; he just hadn't been ready for such a direct query. Never before had he thought of having sex with another man—let alone kissing one—and now this Anders had appeared and completely turned his world around.

It was going to be a long night.

**Author's Note: **I started writing this last year and was never able to finish it, but reading over the chapters I have, I like how the story flows. Leave a review and let me know what you think and whether or not you want to read more. (Help me understand if it's personal pride blinding me or if this story is actually pretty good. ;) )


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: The term "trade" refers to a straight, "normal" man who is willing to have sex with another man (paid or not) but not on the receiving end. To play the "woman's role" in such an encounter is to lose social status and be lowered to a woman's level, as many fairies were in this time period.

There are probably a lot of explanations I should do for the way people saw gender roles in this time period, but I won't since this is not a social history lesson (and I doubt many people really care, haha). If you have any questions, I'd be more than happy to clarify things, however.

Two

_Hanged Man_

_September 26, 2:00 AM_

Varric herded the last of his customers out the door—apart from those few who had paid for a night with one of the prostitutes. Isabela had been offered money from nearly every man there, but had turned them all down in the end, choosing instead to spend most of her time in Fenris's company. The pair were seated at a table in the far corner, one of Isabela's long, shapely legs resting across the officer's lap. Garret had never seen the pair do anything more than talk and occasionally touch one another—such as Izzie was doing right now—but he suspected that there was more to his friend's game than just buttering the officer up to keep their tavern's illicit business under wraps.

Anders had not reappeared. Garret searched endlessly for the man, even moving through the crowd to serve drinks in the hopes that he might see the beautiful fairy again. But he was nowhere to be found and for reasons that Garret couldn't explain, the fact made his heart heavy.

"Well, apart from your little slip-up in the beginning, you did good." Varric was watching him from across the room, amber eyes stern and yet not angry. "Care to explain just what happened?"

"Nothing, ser. I just…lost myself for a second."

"Try not to let it happen again, Hawke. These people are some of the most affluent customers I have. I don't want them heading down the street to another bar."

"Of course, ser."

Varric nodded at him one last time before heading up the stairs to his own suite. The few remaining prostitutes who had chosen not to take a job that night dispersed to their rooms, tired and buzzed. Norah and another young woman by the name of Lily stayed to help him clean the place up, putting empty glasses and plates behind the bar for the clean-up crew to take care of come morning. The Hanged Man didn't open for business until the early evening hours and so Varric had hired a group of young waifs to clean the place during the day, which worked out well for Garret most nights.

This night, though, he would have gladly stayed and washed every dish and table. Going home—alone—did not seem the most favorable option—especially if it meant facing his brother, who had made his opinion on Garret's illegal activities clearly known. He didn't have the heart or energy to argue right now and considered finding an inn to spend the night in peace.

"Good night ladies," he said to the young women as he passed. "Good night, Izzie! And you, messere."

Fenris and Isabela waved to him from their table; Varric trusted the pair enough to stay as long as they wished and some nights they did just that.

"Walk safe, Hawke," Aveline advised from the door, green eyes stern and yet warm at the same time.

"Don't worry about me, Aveline. I know where the gangs like to frequent around these parts." _I used to be one of them, _he finished silently.

"Doesn't hurt to walk safe all the same."

Garret smiled at her. "Of course. The same to you. Good night."

"Good night."

Garret exited the tavern and turned left down the street, allowing his feet to lead him by instinct. Downtown New York boasted several less-seedy inns and Garret had had many occasions to seek shelter at those establishments, so he knew where he was going. With intuition leading the way, his mind was free to process the events of the night and the cloaked meaning beneath Anders's words.

Surely Isabela must have been right: the fairy was a prostitute. Who else would be so open with questions that would inevitably lead to a sexual nature? But for some reason, the thought of that made Garret sad—and a bit angry. It was sort of the same way he viewed Isabela and her clients every time she led one by the hand up that long stairwell. She was his dear friend and it made him sick that she was forced to make a living in such a way.

Isabela had told him once about her past one night when the tavern had been virtually empty and they both had been drinking some form of heavy liquor. She had been married to an affluent business man with much notoriety in the upper-middle-class society. He had courted her as a true gentleman: lavishing her with fine gifts and praises; always holding the coach door open and offering his coat when the weather turned bad. But the moment she had agreed to marry him, her life had become a nightmare.

No longer was her lover a gentle soul who spoke softly in the night; the gentleman was gone and in his place was a monster who took delight in beating her when the mood struck him. Isabela had lived for five years in constant fear and pain, wishing that she could kill herself and yet knowing that her husband always had eyes watching her around the house. The last she had said was that he had died one day quite suddenly and because she had borne him no children, his family had abandoned her to the streets with a single dress and pair of shoes to her name. How she had come to her current profession truly didn't take much imagination to figure out.

The thought that this Anders might have met similar circumstances—though his expensive clothing spoke otherwise—made Garret's heart ache. If only he hadn't been a fool; if only he had answered the question, spoke his heart's deepest desires; if only…

"Yer a purdy li'le fag, aintcha?"

Garret could recognize a tone like that in the middle of a crowded room. He had run with a street gang in New York's undercity for much of his young life and though Garret like to think that he had been reformed, it was hard to part oneself from the full brunt of that existence. His first thought was to walk away—gangs had to eat, too, after all—

"I certainly like to think so. Please, ser, I wish you wouldn't muss my coat. It was a gift."

—But of course, it just had to be _that _voice, didn't it? The same voice he had waited to hear since it had asked the very question that had pierced his heart's desires. His body was completely taken over by instinct now as his muscles relaxed and his footsteps softened to a mere whisper of a sound. The voices were coming from an alley to his left…

"A gift?" a second rough voice scoffed. "How's about you _gift _it t'us?"

"I would be happy to, ser, if it didn't have so much sentimental value. Surely you understand?"

"Gawd, but you sure do talk purdy, dontcha? Mayhaps we put that mouth to better use?"

Garret was at the corner of the building now; when he peered around the edge of the wall, he could make out the shadowy figures of several tough-looking hoods surrounding the unmistakable form of Anders who had his back to the wall.

"Hmm, I'm afraid I can't indulge you, ser. I have an appointment I must keep—"

Garret watched as one of the hoods slapped Anders across the face, effectively silencing the fairy. After that, the only thing he saw was red.

Without a sound, the big German swept up behind the hoods. He grabbed two by the backs of their collars and slammed their heads together, pausing only long enough to step over their slumped bodies as he descended on the remaining three. The first boy he reached was still caught in shock and fell easily beneath a hard right-hook; the last two had had enough time to overcome surprise and draw their switchblades.

Muscles honed by years of knife-fights and late-night smuggling, Garret easily dodged clumsy stabs and managed to grab one of the hoods by his hair, hoisting him into the air. The boy screamed in pain as great tufts of his hair were pulled out by the root—only to be silenced as he was flung into the brick wall. There was a single moment that Garret stood undefended and the remaining boy eagerly took the opening, driving his knife home in the meaty muscles of the young man's forearm. Garret took the hood off-guard by stepping into the stab and delivering a vicious uppercut with his left arm that sent the boy flying several feet away.

Garret cast about him, teeth bared in an animalistic snarl. Soft hands touched his wounded arm and he started to turn on what instinct told him was another attacker—only to realize it was just Anders. Honey-colored eyes looked up at him with a mixture of gratitude and worry, slender fingers grasping his right forearm gently around the knife that still protruded from it. Bit by bit, Garret forced his body to relax which made the adrenaline rush cool back down and thus the pain in his arm to hit him full force.

"A-Are you all right?" Garret asked sheepishly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm.

"I'm fine. Please, allow me to take you to my apartment. I have some bandages and salves that should heal this right up."

"I…"

"Please? It's the least I can do."

From the moment he had first looked into those eyes, Garret knew he would never be able to say no.

Anders lived in a tenement building not too far away from the Hanged Man. Most of the other residents were still asleep, but there were a few other fairies milling about the entrance. They perked up when the pair approached and Garret realized that they were all staring at _him. _A couple of them started forward but at a firm gesture from Anders stopped in their tracks. Even when the pair passed right in front of them, they remained still, though Garret did hear one mutter to his friends:

"Lucky bastard always gets the best trade."

Garret blushed furiously, but found it hard to dispute the comment. After all, a part of him desired the blonde fairy in the same way that he had once desired Isabela. It was a frustrating side of him; compounded with his increasing light-headedness, there was no way he could untangle the mental puzzle right now.

Thankfully, Anders lived on the second floor. But even that one flight of stairs was rough; Garret found his breath beginning to grow more and more ragged and his vision was turning dark around the edges. At some point, Anders had fallen back to walk beside him—one of the man's arms slung over the fairy's rather broad shoulders—though Garret barely noticed. If he had, he might have noticed the floral scent in Anders's hair or the warmth of his body pressed against his side…

Anders had wrapped his handkerchief around Garret's arm in an attempt to stem the flow of blood and keep the knife in place so it wouldn't cause any further damage. The white cloth would forever be stained red, and for some reason Garret found himself mourning that fact. It had been such a pretty handkerchief: soft and made of finely woven cotton. And he had ruined it…

"Garret, focus on me, okay? Why don't you tell me about your family?"

"Huh…what?" The world was really fuzzy. Why was everything so blurry?

"What's your mom's name?"

"L-Leandra…"

"Good. Tell me about her." Anders's voice was soothing as he led Garret to a seat at a small dinner table. Once the man was stationary, Anders moved away for a moment to gather his first aid kit. "Tell me about Leandra, Garret."

"She's…native born…moved to…Munich with…my dad…"

"Oh? And why did you move back?"

"T-the great war…Germany…mess…"

Anders gathered a handful of white cloth and held it just above the knife. "Where are your parents now?" He swiftly pulled the blade free and pressed the cloth to the oozing wound. Garret had opened his mouth to answer, but the only sound that escaped was a groan.

"I know," Anders crooned as he applied pressure, "just keep talking to me, Garret. Where are your parents now?"

"M-mom…lives in midtown…next to the…old theater…"

Anders lifted the cloth, reaching for a bottle of ointment with his free hand. "And your father?"

"Dead…sister too…"

Garret was fading quickly now; he mumbled a few incoherent words as his eyes rolled back into his head. Anders allowed him to drift off as he rubbed the ointment into his wound before binding it with some clean bandages. The worst was over and the man would live, though it was more than likely he would always carry the scar from this night. Anders had hoped to keep him awake long enough so that Garret would be able to at least half-stumble to the bed, but apparently the blood-loss—in addition to a long night and the fact that it was quite early—had caught up to him.

Anders shrugged Garret's uninjured arm over his shoulders and took as much of the man's weight as he could manage onto his back. It was slow-going, but Anders managed to stagger the short distance across the room to his small bed and gently lower his passenger down onto the worn sheets. Garret immediately rolled onto his side, cheek buried in the thin pillows; within moments, he was snoring softly.

Looking down at the slumbering young man, Anders found that he was smiling. Sleep softened the lines of Garret's face, almost making him look like an adolescent rather than the twenty-something Anders knew he had to be. Well, he _would _have looked like an adolescent without the beard. The man's dark brown hair was terribly mussed and yet it was a charming look for him; gently, Anders ran his fingers through the silky strands as he perched on the bed beside Garret.

The night had certainly brought numerous, pleasant surprises—and almost one not-so-pleasant surprise. When his trade friends had invited him out for a drink, Anders had jumped at the chance. It wasn't _too _difficult to find liquor despite the Prohibition, but the only way a fairy would be able to gain admittance to the nicer taverns in New York was usually if he was in the company of "normal" men. Anders had been searching for an excuse to dress up nice and this had proven the perfect opportunity.

He had expected to meet _someone, _even if it was just another trade looking for a quick tumble. What Anders hadn't expected was to find a man like Garret who was obviously attracted to him and yet resisted. The challenge he presented had proved too much for Anders and he had pursued him. He hadn't planned on getting mugged, but then that was part of the danger of walking the streets alone at night. Anders probably could have handled the hoods on his own but he was grateful for Garret's timely intervention—even if it had led to the man's current state.

Reluctantly, Anders moved away from the bed so that he could exchange his nice clothes for a simple tunic and trousers. His apartment was small, but he liked to think of it as "cozy" rather than "suffocating." He didn't have many clothes—especially nice clothes—but Anders made do well enough with what he did have.

The past decade had been a whirlwind for the city. Political strife ran rampant; labor unions were springing up all around in response to the plight of the working class; immigrants continued to pour in, hungry and destitute, soaking up whatever meager work they could find; and men like Anders—fairies like Anders—were beginning to fall under harsher scrutiny. The Great War had helped them, in a way, with its propaganda about the "venereal breeding ground" known as "woman" which made authorities more paranoid about regular prostitutes than the young men who loitered within their ranks. But that wouldn't last forever and though Anders never had trouble finding work, several of his friends were quickly going broke.

Things had been rough all over, but Anders soldiered on as he always did. From the day he had arrived in the city, Anders had jumped into events with whole-hearted determination. New York might not be the most conducive locale for the struggling working class (as far as finding work that paid more than a half-dollar a week), but it was certainly the perfect city for social expression. The fairy subculture Anders had found here was intoxicating; not everything about it was grand, but the promise of self-expression was enough in itself. Besides, that subculture had brought him to Karl—

_No. _Anders stopped that line of thought abruptly. Now was not the time to be thinking of such things—especially when there was a handsome young man sleeping in his bed.

When Anders turned around, his breath caught in his throat. Garret had shifted at some point and now lay on his back, one leg hanging off the side of bed and one arm crossed over his broad chest. His breathing was even and smooth, and from this angle he looked even younger than he had before. Anders approached the bed slowly as if he were facing a skittish dog in the streets and didn't want to scare it away. He had seen his fair share of handsome men, but truly Garret was something special.

The young bartender wasn't good-looking in the conventional sense; he was too dark for that, too rough-looking. But there was something about him that drew Anders closer, like a moth hypnotized by an open flame. He wanted nothing more than to cup that grizzled face in his hands and feel those chapped lips against his own…to feel safe in the curve of those warm arms.

Above all, Anders wanted to possess the young man. But that was the wildest of fantasies; there were few men in Garret's position who would risk their social status by agreeing to such an arrangement. If Anders wanted him at all, he would have to accept that fact.

Garret shifted and Anders halted, barely two steps away from the bed. The young man's eyes fluttered open and he groaned. Anders quickly moved back to his small kitchen and the first aid kit that was still sitting on the table, pulling out a medium-sized bottle that carried some oily concoction. He poured a small amount into a cup and carried it back to the bed where Garret was slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings.

"Hnn…w-wha…what happened?" Garret vaguely remembered following Anders home, but after that his memories were blurred.

"Here, drink this." Anders offered him the cup. Garret sniffed its contents and his nose wrinkled; he looked up at the fairy with a suspicious glint in his golden eyes.

"It'll help ease the ache in your head," Anders assured him with a small smile.

Still Garret looked unconvinced; Anders sighed. "If I had wanted to do something to you, I would have done it while you were unconscious. I promise you, Garret, that nothing happened and that the potion is meant only to benefit."

The young man flushed a bit, muttering an apology before quickly downing the thick, oily concoction. He gagged a bit as it slid sluggishly down his throat, coating his mouth with the strange texture and somewhat bitter taste. A second cup was offered to him, this one full of diluted wine. Garret eagerly downed the drink; it didn't get the taste of the potion completely out of his mouth, but things certainly tasted better now.

Within moments, the throbbing ache in his skull began to ebb. As the pain faded, Garret found that he finally had control over his mind again and he took a moment to survey the Anders's cramped apartment. It was all one room with one small window on the far wall that let in a slight breeze. A chamber pot in one dark corner and a kitchen that bore only a couple of cupboards that Garret assumed were probably empty. Besides the tiny dinner table and its lone, dilapidated chair, the bed he was lying in was the only other piece of furniture.

_Even mother's house is better than _this, he thought to himself, feeling a bit ashamed that he had ever thought to complain of the way his family lived. They weren't rich by any means, but neither were they quite _this _poor.

"It's not much," Anders remarked, as if reading his mind, "but a home is a home. It's more than many have."

"I—I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it. There's no need to apologize." Anders smiled and Garret felt all of his nervous anxiety float away. He could lose himself in that smile; he _wanted _to lose himself in that smile.

"So…uh…thank you—" Garret lifted his bandaged arm—"for this."

"It was the least I could do since you got the wound on my account. Allow me to thank you properly for your timely rescue: will you join me for some breakfast?"

"What time is it?"

"Oh, I'd say about five or so."

"There aren't many places open this early…"

Anders chuckled; Garret felt his cheeks burn. "No, I meant that I will cook you something. I don't have much, but I know my way around a kitchen."

"You don't have to—" But Anders wasn't paying any attention to him as he turned and headed towards the kitchen. Garret swung his legs over the side of the bed, head turned so he could watch the fairy cook. Anders moved with effortless grace and Garret found that he was enchanted by the elegant way the man worked his hands, reaching and grasping and twisting with certain flair…

At home, he was often the one helping mother cook their meals and Garret found that he felt quite foolish sitting on the bed while someone else did all the work for him. He stood up—taking a moment until the spinning in his head stopped—and moved across the room to stand beside the fairy. Anders looked up at him, surprise written clearly across his fine-boned features. Garret offered a lop-sided smile.

"What can I do?"

"You can go sit back down."

Garret reached across the man—his arm brushing Anders's chest just barely—to grasp the bowl and spoon Anders had brought down from the cupboard. When it was positioned in front of him, he looked down the few inches into those honey-colored eyes:

"What can I do?"

Anders smiled. "There are some eggs in the cabinet beneath you. I think four should be enough."

They worked in silence, Garret mixing the eggs in his bowl while Anders chopped at a small side of ham. It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but neither was the silence completely companionable. Garret could barely fight back the blush burning at his cheeks or the suggestive thoughts that kept creeping through his mind every time Anders's arm or leg brushed against his. He had the proper state of mind to consider his position now, but Garret was almost afraid of the answers he would find if he tried.

It didn't take long before Anders shooed Garret to the table while he finished cooking. Garret reluctantly sunk down into the lone chair, rubbing absently at the bandage covering his wounded arm. It was surprising how little the knife-wound hurt; whatever Anders had done, it was definitely working. The only problem was that the space beneath the bandages was itchy and Garret found that he couldn't help but start scratching at it.

"Stop that," Anders commanded as he turned around, easily balancing a plate in each hand. Garret immediately stopped pestering the bandage, smiling like a sheepish child. He thanked Anders as the man placed one of the plates in front of him; a moment later, a fork joined it. Garret started to stand up—intending to allow Anders to sit in his own chair—but the fairy quickly waved him back down.

"No, no. The chair is yours. Please, just eat."

The meal was simple enough: eggs and ham with a sprinkling of some spice Garret couldn't name. Garret Hawke had never been the type to worry about his manners, but as he watched Anders eat—delicate little bites and movements that wasted nothing—he suddenly felt self-conscious. He treated his fork like a piece of fine porcelain, his own movements slow and deliberate as he dipped its tined ends into the egg mixture and lifted a tiny bite to his lips. Just as delicately, he opened his mouth and levered the fork into his mouth—where an explosion of flavor burst across his taste buds. And that was all it took for his manners to disappear; lost to single-minded hunger, Garret lifted the plate to his mouth and began pouring the food down his throat, barely pausing to chew.

Anders watched him with amusement glowing in his eyes. It had taken a lot of willpower to keep from laughing when Garret had begun eating; a soft chuckle escaped his throat when the young man had finally given up the pretense. When Garret finished his plate—Anders had to lower his face when the young man began actually licking it clean, afraid to offend him with the laughter he barely kept contained—he looked despondent for a moment, as if believing that if he stared at the plate long enough, more would appear. Anders placed his own plate in front of him, its meal only partly eaten.

"Are you sure?" Garret asked, hesitating.

"I'm sure."

Garret beamed at him like a child who had just been told that "yes, you can have the toy" and finished off Anders's plate in the same manner he had polished off his own. Anders was forced to press a palm to his mouth as he began giggling; it was truly a queer sight to see such a big man acting like this. Garret looked up at him while in mid-lick of the plate. As if finally realizing the way he was behaving, a red flush burned a path across the young man's cheeks and he lowered the plate to the table, abashed.

"Thank you for the meal," Garret mumbled, not looking up at his host. "I apologize for my behavior."

"Please, there's no need for you to apologize," Anders said in between chuckles. "I'm happy that you enjoyed the food. It always makes me feel good to see my cooking so well appreciated."

Garret looked up and offered a crooked smile. "You're a wonderful cook. Just don't tell my mother that I behaved this way. She'd be liable to skin me."

"Is that so? Hmm…" Anders tapped one elegant finger against his chin as he rounded the table. "Well, that won't do. I like your skin right where it is." He was standing right in front of Garret now; boldly, he reached out with one hand to cup the young man's bearded cheek.

Garret knew that his entire face was red now, the heat surely stemming from that scorching palm. Instinct told him to pull the fairy down into his lap and ravish him, but he didn't—couldn't. It wasn't the fact that he was afraid anyone would frown upon the action—for it was quite common for men to take their pleasures in any way they could; fairies were just another form of woman, so long as they remained _the woman. _No, it wasn't that. Looking up at Anders, Garret saw hints of Isabela and the other girls who worked at the Hanged Man. He didn't want to use this man like that, just as he had never used any of the prostitutes after that first tumble with Isabela.

For some reason Garret couldn't explain, he wanted more from this man…and yet he was too afraid to ask for it; to reach out for it; to _claim _it.

Garret stood quickly, knocking over his chair in the process as he stumbled back and away from Anders's touch. He knew he looked like a fool, but it didn't matter. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his pants and the _only _thing Garret wanted at that moment was to run away before he did something he knew he would regret.

"T-T-Thank you, again, f-for everything. I-I need to…go."

He made it to the door before a light touch on his left bicep stopped him in his tracks. Gulping past the lump of fear in this throat, Garret looked over his shoulder to where Anders stood, unrelenting gaze smoldering with such intensity. The young man's cock twitched under that look and vaguely he wondered how he still had the willpower now to turn around and claim what he so desired.

"Don't leave, Garret," Anders murmured, moving closer so that his front was pressed against the young man's side; Garret felt a shudder run through him when he realized that Anders's cock was pressed against his hip and was just as hard as his own. "You don't have to leave."

"I…Anders, I can't…"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Just a quick comment on vocabulary usage once more: when you see the words "conservative" or "liberal" appear, I want to clarify that I _do not _mean them in the way the terms are used today as far as political affiliations go. Once upon a time, the two words meant something different and they have been perverted into something that many people say with scorn (when referring to their opposite).

I'm sure that I'm just stating the obvious, but I wanted to make that clear to those who might read the story in that light and think I'm "bashing" one or the other (or however else their usage might be perceived). "Liberal" and "conservative" in regards to "democrat" and "republican" have no place in this time period, and as such should not be read in the same vein. Truly, at this time, dem's and rep's were not all that different in the way they slavishly followed classical liberalism. They didn't _really _start separating themselves until later on in the century.

And I apologize for the mini-rant. I'm no master of American history by any means, but I do love history in general and I sometimes tend to ramble on when something strikes my fancy.

Three

_West Downtown Tenements_

_September 26, 6:00 AM_

Anders took a step back and Garret found that a part of him regretted the loss of warmth against his side. He didn't turn to face the man—couldn't, lest he give into the burning temptation—as he reached for the doorknob.

"Thank you again, Garret," Anders said. "Try not to get stabbed again, all right?"

He spoke as if nothing had happened; as if they had just been chatting about the weather like old friends. It was a temporary salve, but it worked to loosen some of the tension that had been building in Garret's shoulders.

"I'll try," he offered with a small smile, still not looking directly at the fairy. "You try and keep a better eye out when you're walking at night."

"I'll try." The warmth in those words made Garret's knees feel like jelly, and he quickly exited the apartment before his willpower could falter again.

_Upper East Apartments_

_8:06 AM_

"So the brigand finally returns home?"

Garret had barely stepped inside his home—barely removed his overcoat and ran a hand through his dark tresses with a tired sigh—before his brother was on him. Carver Hawke stood in an open doorway that led to their compound kitchen/dining room, burly arms crossed over his broad chest as he regarded the older man with a disapproving scowl. Garret sighed again as he moved past the scowling young man towards his room further down the hall.

"Oh, that's right. Ignore anyone that dares speak against your illicit lifestyle. I'm sure that'll fix the problem."

Garret halted and half-turned so that he could level his younger brother with the acerbic look he knew the young man hated: "In order to be a 'brigand,' as you say, that would imply that I steal. Nothing that I sell was taken from someone against their will, and the fact that I _have _customers implies that there are many others who consider this amendment a bunch of bullshit, too."

"Just like a criminal to defend criminals."

With a frustrated sigh, Garret started down the hall once more. Continuing this argument—which was one the brothers had nearly every day—was a pointless endeavor and Garret was far too weary to get into a shouting match. Besides, if things got out of hand—as they had before—mother wasn't here to diffuse the situation as she was often forced to do. She and Uncle Gamlen would be out in the market by now, meeting with their friends and pining over the many little things they were no longer able to afford.

Leandra Hawke—previously Leandra Amell—had once been the daughter of an affluent businessman with an ample fortune hanging heavy in his pockets. But when she had decided to marry a poor, transient immigrant from Germany, Leandra had promptly been disowned. Her new husband had taken her back to Germany where they had given birth to Garret and Gamlen had been left behind as the family's sole heir.

Garret couldn't speak too disparagingly of his Uncle, for if it wasn't for him, the Hawke family wouldn't have a home; but Gamlen was a blithering idiot, through and through, and upon the death of his parents had promptly taken their money and lost it all in several hopeless investment ventures. Despite Leandra's being a woman, their parents had always favored their daughter and truly the money had been left to her in their will. But since she had been out of the country when the Amells had fallen beneath a bout of cholera—and since there were very few judges who would take the word of a woman over a man—there was no way to get the money back and no real way to punish Gamlen for his theft.

Garret wanted to change that for his mother, but working as a bartender—even if he was employed at one of the more affluent saloons in the city—wasn't really enough pay to bring his family back to the affluence that was their birthright. The most he had been able to do was move them out of Gamlen's hovel down by the railroad tracks into a decent apartment in the Upper East Side.

The Hawke brothers shared a room and as Garret stepped inside the cramped quarters, he could hear Carver's heavy footsteps following close behind. Apparently it had been too much to hope that the younger man would drop the issue. Irritation emanated from Carver in suffocating waves as he pursued his brother into their room and watched as Garret sat heavily on the side of his bed, leaning forward to unlace his boots.

"When are you going to give this up?" Carver asked. "When you get arrested, do you really think the authorities won't turn to us next? Think of mother!"

"I do think of mother! Every day!" A boot was angrily tugged off and thrown across the room, thumping heavily against the wall. "Look at where you live, you little prat! _My _money paid for this!"

"Illegal money!"

"Then leave! You're seventeen, Carver. I hesitate to call you a man, but you are certainly old enough to get your own job and your own place if everything I do is so offensive to your delicate sensibilities."

Carver seethed, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say, because he knew that Garret was right. Most young men had jobs at age twelve—some even younger if it was needed—but thanks to Garret's hard work, Gamlen's supplemental income, and mother's somewhat smothering nature over her youngest child, Carver had never truly needed to get out and get his own hands dirty. Their family wasn't rich, but they made enough to live in a decent home with regular meals and enough funds to support an unemployed young man.

"If you're done," Garret said, frustration giving way to weariness, "then I'll ask you to leave. I have work tonight and I need to get some rest."

He laid back on the bed—not bothering to change his clothes—and threw an arm over his eyes. Silence stretched for a long moment before he heard Carver finally shuffle out of the room, heavy footsteps plodding down the hall. Garret waited until he heard the front door slam shut before he finally lowered his arm and studied the warped ceiling above him. He hadn't been lying when he said he had work, but sleep seemed an elusive thing.

A part of his mind wondered if perhaps he had gone a bit too far with Carver—if his words had been a bit too harsh. It was true that the volatile young man needed to get his own life, but Garret regretted calling his brother's manhood into question. The only reason he had was because he had become a master at getting beneath his brother's skin. Garret knew just the right things to say to drive Carver into a frenzy and oftentimes his own pettiness allowed him to take their argumentative conversations to that impasse.

But more than that, Garret's thoughts were occupied by Anders's haunting eyes and the beautiful way he smiled. Allowing that smile to wash over his mind, Garret eventually fell into a troubled slumber.

_5:19 PM_

Garret awoke with a start, covered in cold sweat. His clothes—still dirty and bloodstained from the night before—clung to him at awkward angles, especially over his groin which was painfully tense. Only ghosts of images from his dreams remained, but Garret could piece enough together to realize what had caused his erection and to feel just a bit of shame for its existence. He could hear the muffled voices of his family down the hall and Garret knew he would have to take care of the disturbance quickly, lest they think less of him.

He reached down into his waistband and wrapped a hand around the turgid length beneath, beginning a steady stroking rhythm with his fisted hand. The mental images he normally used for such occasion—such as Isabela's ample bosom, or the multitude of sounds he often heard coming from the back rooms of the Hanged Man—eluded him; the only thing Garret could focus on was Anders's smile.

Anders's eyes. Anders's touch. Anders's cock pressed tight against his side.

He shoved his free hand into his mouth to stifle the cry that bubbled up through his throat as he came. It had been quicker than usual; normally it took much more than one person's face to draw him over the edge. But that was the power the fairy held over him, and Garret realized that he had never before felt so relaxed.

The churches around town always preached that to desire sex was a sin of lust; sex only existed for procreation, and to think of it outside of that context was to be wicked. Of course, Garret's parents had taught him something slightly different, if not in words then in the way they had always watched one another; always touched one another even in light fingertips brushing against a strand of hair or the ghost of a kiss upon a cheek. The times were changing rapidly, but the old adages of religion and the stuffy opinions of stalwart conservatives still held strong.

Garret used his sweat-soaked shirt to clean the mess before donning a clean set of clothes and heading down the hallway. Mother and Gamlen were seated at the dining table in the kitchen, chatting as they sipped at steaming mugs. Coffee was a bit of a luxury, but Garret's father had always favored it and had gotten Leandra hooked on the stuff, too, thus Garret made sure that they always had some in the house. As he passed through the open doorway, Leandra looked up at him with her usual warm smile.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up. How was work?"

"Busy," Garret said. "Varric brought in a few upper-class customers last night and they kept us late. I'm sorry I didn't make it home."

Leandra waved the apology away. "Don't worry about it, dear. I just worry that that man works you too hard."

"Some nights, but it's good pay and good company, so I don't mind."

"Hmph," Gamlen snorted. "If you brought some of your 'product' home I might be more inclined to forgive you, boy."

"Gamlen!" Leandra slapped lightly at his arm.

"Sorry, Uncle," Garret said with a wolfish turn of his mouth. "I don't think you have enough money to afford the drink or the girls. And trust me, they'd charge double for you."

"Garret! Please don't speak that way in the house! You know I don't agree with your work, but I accept it anyways. If you want me to keep accepting it, allow a mother her ignorance."

"Of course, mother. I'm sorry."

"And Gamlen, if you don't clean up your tongue, I'll have you sleeping on the stoop."

The graying man snorted again, but said nothing more. No matter what petty rivalries the pair had exercised in the past, they were still family and Leandra was _not _the kind of person a wise man said "no" to. Even if Gamlen tried to defy his sister—or do anything else to threaten or harm her, as he had occasionally hinted at doing—the man knew that he would have two very irate Hawkes on him in a heartbeat. It was one of the few things Carver and Garret could ever agree on, and when it came to their mother there were a dozen different alleys one could hide a body in where it wouldn't be found for weeks.

As Garret moved past the pair into the kitchen to find some food, Leandra let out a sharp gasp.

"Garret! You arm! What happened?"

He looked down at his arm—which was still covered in the now-filthy bandages Anders had used—and cursed beneath his breath. How could he have forgotten about that?

"Um…I tripped?"

Leandra was already on her feet and moving across the small room to arrest his wounded arm in her grasp, running her fingers lightly over a patch of rust-colored cloth where the bleeding had soaked through.

"Does it hurt? What happened? Who did this?"

Garret tried to pull his arm away, but she was having none of that. "It's nothing, mother. I promise. There was…a fight last night and I got a little careless. It doesn't hurt and I didn't recognize their faces."

"A fight in the bar?"

"Um…no. On the street."

"Ohh! _This _is why I hate the fact that you work so late! There are so many gangs prowling the streets at night. Can't you ask Varric to work in the daytime?"

"The bar's only open at night, mother. Besides, it's just a scratch. I'll be more careful from now on."

She leveled him with a stern glare. "You'd better be. I've already buried one child; I _will not _bury another, do you hear me?"

Garret rested his much-larger hand over her pale fingers, squeezing them lightly. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Leandra allowed him to pull away this time, though her anxious gaze still lingered on his stained bandages. Garret had thought to get something in his stomach before he left for work, but now he felt a bit nauseous. That tended to happen whenever the subject of his sister was brought up. Bethany Hawke had been a sweet girl who hadn't deserved her end and no matter the fact that years had passed since that terrible night, Garret couldn't help but feel responsible—a feeling that Carver never let him forget.

He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his mother's brow before heading towards the door. Leandra followed him into the hall, watching as he shouldered on his heavily patched coat.

"I left some money on your dresser," Garret said. "Why don't you buy yourself a new dress? I heard a rumor that Mrs. Foley is a particularly skilled seamstress. Lives just down the street, too."

"Perhaps I will." Leandra tried to smile, but the gesture did not reach her eyes. "I love you, darling."

"I love you, too, mother."

_The Hanged Man_

_5:32 PM_

Varric looked over his books with a practiced eye, consternation furrowing his brow into a wrinkled mess. The party the night before had brought in quite a bit of cash, but it wasn't enough. Bit by bit, his saloon was losing business and the expenses of keeping it open were fast beginning to outweigh the profits. Prohibition was hitting hard and keeping a place like this—that had once been a classy joint that drew in the middle-class crowd who always had an extra penny burning in their pockets—open was beginning to seem like a losing battle.

Not to mention the fact that the Committee of Fifteen was also cracking down, making Varric paranoid about whether the men who stepped in at night were really customers or some undercover investigator rooting out prostitution violations. The business itself was accepted overall, but the city officials seemed determined to remove all instances of "immoral activities" from the underbelly where they had always reigned supreme.

His options so far were either to cut off several of his girls or lower the standards of his bar. The former would be the easiest solution, but it would only be a temporary fix; eventually, he'd have to let all of the girls go just to keep the saloon from going under and after that happened, he would go bankrupt anyways. But the latter option…well, that wasn't really fair to the girls, either. Part of the reason they had signed up to work for Varric—paying him a small fee from every nightly client—was because he had not only promised them housing and food, but had promised to keep the riff-raff away from them. Lowering the standards of the saloon would put them at risk for that and soon enough there would be no real difference between working here and working on the streets.

Slender hands gently gripped his shoulders, fingers moving in a soothing pattern as they worked to ease the tension that had been building in his shoulders and neck. Varric leaned back with a contented sigh, closing his eyes and allowing those fingers to relax his body bit by bit.

"You should come have a drink with me," Isabela's voice purred next to his ear. "Sit up here much longer and you'll probably become one with the dust."

Varric chuckled, reaching up to grasp one of her tanned hands in his own so that he could plant a light kiss on the palm. "And perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing. At least dust doesn't have to think or worry. It just lies there and waits placidly for a rag to move it along its way."

"Mm, so you're in _that _kind of mood." Isabela moved so that she could perch on the edge of the table beside him, hands crossed over her bosom as she considered him. "Want to talk about it?"

"What good will it do? Thanks to that damn Volstead Act, I've lost a good quarter of my customers. Who wants to go to a saloon for a glass of chalky water?"

"Not to mention the new crack-down on prostitution. A couple of my friends were arrested just the other day for propositioning sailors down by the docks."

"Thanks," Varric said, sarcasm heavily lacing his voice, "I'd almost forgotten about that."

Chuckling, Isabela reached out to cup his bristled cheek in her palm. "No need to be snarky, hon. I have a suggestion or two you might want to consider."

"Might as well. At this point, I'm just about ready to try anything."

"First," Isabela began, dropping her hand back to the table, "I think that you should increase the portion we pay you from our clients."

"You'd willingly give more of your own pay?"

"Varric, you let us board and eat here for free. This is a thousand times better than working in the alleys where it wasn't always likely you would even be able to find a clean room for the…transaction. If taking a little more out of my pocket to keep this place from going under and thus keep myself from returning to that life, then I'll gladly pay you more."

"And what of the others?"

Isabela shrugged. "I think that most will agree with little persuasion. But if there are any who don't accept the idea, then they can leave. Either way, you'll get more money."

Varric nodded thoughtfully, mulling the idea over for a moment before he said: "And your other suggestion?"

"I have a…friend who works in the bootlegger business. If you'd like, I might be able to get you a cut."

"Oh? And what all would that entail?"

"Well, I don't know all the details, but I assume that he will want to use your saloon as a base of sorts: a place where he and his men can rest without fear of harassment. If you want to know what else he has up his sleeve, you'll have to talk to him yourself."

"I'll consider it," Varric said after a moment's pause. He trusted Isabela—to an extent. She was a good woman, but at the same time she was the type who would do anything and everything she needed for herself first and foremost. They had built up a good camaraderie over the years, but Varric had no doubt that he, too, would be left behind should Isabela ever find herself in a position that called for a quick getaway.

Not that he was really any different.

Isabela had risen to her feet and made it to the door that led back down into the main room of the tavern when she stopped and turned back suddenly.

"Oh, and one more thing: might I suggest hiring a few different people?"

Varric rolled his eyes. "That's one of my problems, my dear: too many girls."

Dark mischief glinted in her eyes. "I never said anything about more girls."

Before Varric could even think of a response, Isabela was out the door and gliding down the stairs. Distantly, he could hear her sultry voice as she struck up a conversation with the other girls. Truly, that woman had a sharp mind. Perhaps Varric had been a tad bit fatalistic before her visit, but her ideas would take some careful thought.

"Different people" indeed…


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I apologize for the long delay in updates. My current circumstances are not very conducive to writing fanfiction, unfortunately. But I was sifting through my old, unfinished stories and found this gem. This is definitely one of the stories I am a little more proud of and I will try to finish it, though I am certain that the end result will not be as good as it might have been had I never stopped writing.

To answer a reviewer question: The term "drag" wouldn't quite apply to this time period, I believe. The fairies of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were, for all intents and purposes, seen as a different breed of "woman." Anders (and the other fairies that will be introduced shortly) would have dressed in a feminine manner partly because he liked it but mostly because it was the attire that made his clients more comfortable in his company. This does not, of course, apply to all fairies of the era, I'm certain, but it's the way I am using the idea.

That being said, I wouldn't take my word as written gospel. This is how I understand the time period and this subculture based on my own limited research. (Honestly, my focus is in ancient historical studies, so this whole "modern" time period is quite a bit out of my comfort zone, but I wanted to write the story anyways. ) And I agree with you completely about AUs; I normally avoid reading _or _writing them, but this idea was too enticing.

Four

_West Downtown Tenements_

_6:12 PM_

"So did that big guy taste as delicious as he looked?"

"Mm, you should have invited us to join you, Anders. I think that one was too much man for you alone."

Anders smiled, shaking his head as he took a light draw from his cigarette. His friends were good people, but a bit more flamboyant than Anders thought necessary. Jethann—a slight little redhead—was currently wearing a tight-fitting white lace dress that swept down over his dainty feet. There was a light dusting of make-up over his face—a little color around the eyes, cheeks, and on the lips—and if it weren't for the slightly deeper tone of his voice, it would have been rather easy for Jethann to pass as a woman.

The other fairy was newer to the area, though he had managed to ingratiate himself in their small circle easily enough. He called himself "Serendipity" and normally wore a bit too much make-up to pass for a good-looking woman, but still he drew in his fair share of customers. Anders knew them both as good people and was normally glad to share any of his spoils with them. But Garret was different…the bartender was something Anders wanted for himself.

"Don't be a tease, Anders!" Jethann whined. "Tell us!"

"There's nothing to say."

"Oh, you beast! Always taunting me!"

Anders chuckled. "No, I mean there's nothing to say because nothing happened. He saved me from some hoodlums in an alley and I brought him here to tend the wound he incurred on my behalf. He slept for a few hours, I made him breakfast, and then he left. That's all that happened."

He straightened the folds of his coat, allowing that to sink in. Occasionally Anders would dress in the fairy fashion with frilly skirts and slender boots; today he was clad in a simple tunic and trousers with a long, dark brown overcoat to protect against the growing chill. He had no intention of working this day so it wasn't necessary to look the part.

"You had…that man in your house…" Jethann began, each word drawn out, "and you did _nothing?"_

"I thought I knew you!" Serendipity threw a hand across his brow in a sign of mock distress. Anders just smiled, though the gesture did not reach his eyes.

"Well, if you don't want him, I guess that makes him open game!" Jethann was beaming now, a devious light in his bright blue eyes.

Anders glared at the slighter man. "Don't even think about it. He's a good kid and I won't have you spoiling him."

"Oh? So now you're protecting him?" The redhead narrowed his eyes, regarding his blonde friend with careful precision. "What aren't you telling us, Anders?"

Rising to his feet, Anders dropped the butt of his cigarette, grinding it into the cement with the heel of his boot. "I suggest you let the matter drop. I'm going to go get a drink. If I see either of you two near him, trust that I'll skin you."

The fairies stared after him as Anders strode purposefully down the street. It wasn't like their friend to act in such a manner; it wasn't like him to get attached. Serendipity turned to Jethann, one narrow brow raised.

"Well, that was odd. I'm still tempted to try my own hand at the boy."

"That wouldn't be wise," Jethann warned, shaking his head. "I've only seen that look in Anders's eyes once before, and…well…let's just say that you don't want to end up like the last person who crossed him."

Serendipity sighed gustily. "You're no fun."

"Oh, cheer up, my friend! Let's go find our own tasty young men."

They shared a conspiratorial smile as they straightened their dresses and headed down the street. Behind them, Anders continued to walk away, and as Jethann spared a glance over his shoulder, he suddenly wondered why it was the space seemed so far.

_The Hanged Man_

_6:49 PM_

Fenris was sitting at the bar, glaring up at Garret who was laughing nervously. The young man had tried to tell the officer a joke, but apparently the fair-haired man was in no mood for laughter this night. Fenris had already thrown back at least three glasses of hard liquor and there was a glaze in his eyes that meant he could turn dangerous at any moment.

"You're a fool, Hawke."

"Not the worst thing I've been called, I suppose. You want another?"

"Of course I do, fool."

Garret never took Fenris's sour attitude personally; it was just the way the man was. Whatever had brought him to this point was none of the bartender's business; the only thing he had to do was try to keep everyone happy so that they continued to bring their business here. Keeping Fenris happy—though sometimes a practice in futility—was doubly important so that he would continue to keep the bar under the authorities' radar.

As he poured the officer another drink, Isabela made her way to the bar. She leaned up against the wood in just a way that instantly drew Fenris's eyes to her cleavage. Pretending to ignore him, she whispered conspiratorially to Garret:

"I have a surprise for you, my dear!"

Garret groaned. "I swear, Isabela, that every time you say that, I age a couple of years. What is it this time?"

"Well, if you're going to be like that, maybe I _shouldn't _tell you."

"Then don't."

She huffed at him, glancing over at Fenris who had still not torn his gaze away from her displayed chest. "Tell Hawke to stop being stubborn, Fen."

"He's a fool. Of course he's going to be stubborn."

"Face, Fen. Up here."

"I know."

Isabela giggled, which caused her breasts to jiggle slightly against the bar. Fenris took a sip from his drink, never once breaking his stare. Garret rolled his eyes at the pair.

"Do you need something to do, Izzie? I could use a waitress. Norah's out sick today."

The woman scoffed, straightening her spine as she held one hand to her chest as if he had just insulted her. _"Me? _A _waitress? _My dear, I think you've lost your mind! Lean forward, let mama Izzie feel your brow."

She tried to reach across the bar for his face and Garret playfully slapped her hand away. They wrestled like this for a few moments—Fenris scowling into his drink—before Garret realized that another customer had approached the bar. He quickly fought Isabela back, smiling widely as he turned to the familiar blonde man seated to his right. Anders smiled up at him; Garret's feet became tangled as he turned and in a matter of seconds, he found himself in a jumbled heap on the floor.

Isabela clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter; Fenris smirked into his drink. Anders stood up so he could lean over the bar, looking down at Garret in warm amusement.

"Are you all right?"

"Y-Yes! Ah…I…" Garret leapt to his feet, hands moving to straighten his clothes as he fought down the blush burning at his cheeks and neck. There was really no way to recover from this humiliation; Anders's face had been the last thing he expected to see. And yet…from the way his heartbeat had quickened, Garret realized that he was actually excited.

"Very smooth, Hawke," Isabela remarked, giggling. She turned to Fenris, threading her arm into his as she led him away from the bar. When they had gotten a few steps away, she stopped and looked over her shoulder with an impish glint in her eyes: "Oh, I almost forgot: surprise!"

Garret glared at the pair as they moved to a corner table, waiting until they were seated before he turned his attention back to Anders. He was nervous, just like he had been the first time. The only difference was that Anders was dressed in a rather plain fashion as opposed to his somewhat flamboyant attire from the night before. But he was no less captivating.

"So…um…what brings you here?"

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning," Anders began.

"Oh, um, don't…worry."

"I also wanted to make sure that your arm is healing all right. I'm confident that my poultice will work its magic, but all the same it doesn't hurt to double-check." Anders motioned to the bartender's bandaged arm. "May I?"

Garret offered the limb in question across the bar, watching—enraptured—as Anders's slender fingers removed the stained bandages with careful, practiced movements. Inch by inch, the knife-wound was revealed. The puncture was rimmed by slightly upraised red skin, throbbing slightly as the open air hit it. Garret had nursed such injuries before and so he knew that it was healing, but still he waited for Anders to announce his own prognosis.

"It looks good. Keep it clean and wrapped for a couple of days more just to avoid infection."

The man then pulled a roll of fresh white bandages from his coat pocket and began to wrap the wound once more with just as much care he had used to unwrap the old bandage. Garret savored the feel of those elegant fingers brushing against his bare flesh.

"Are you…a healer?" he asked.

"In my spare time."

"I see." Anders tied the end of the bandage and Garret reluctantly drew his arm back across the bar. "You're very good."

Anders smiled. "Thank you."

"So, uh…can I get you a drink?"

"Brandy, please."

Most of their customers preferred to drown their sorrows in a glass of whiskey or scotch; the Hanged Man's brandy supply had hardly been touched. Garret made a mental note to make sure they kept the liquor stocked in case Anders started making these visits a routine thing. He would be a valuable customer, Garret told himself as he poured the requested drink. Anders thanked him and took a small sip, full lips hugging the rim of the glass in a way that made the bartender instantly hard. Garret tried to discreetly adjust his pants as Anders's gaze focused on him once more.

They chatted for a while, learning little bits and pieces about one another as the night wore on. Garret found himself relaxing in the man's company, even laughing and telling the repertoire of crude jokes he always kept at hand. Unlike Fenris, Anders found him amusing and the blonde's laugh was like a heady drug: Garret wanted more.

It was nearing nine 'o'clock when Anders finally decided it was time for him to leave. He thanked Garret for the drinks and the conversation and tried to pay for the three empty brandy glasses sitting on the bar in front of him, but Garret waved his money away.

"Tonight's on the house. It's the least I can do to repay you for breakfast and your healing."

Anders gifted him with another charming smile that instantly sent Garret's knees to quivering.

"Thank you, Garret. Have a good night."

"W-wait!" Anders turned, curious. Garret fought back a nervous blush. "I, um, are you going to be all right walking home alone?"

"I'll be careful. It helps that I'm not wearing an expensive coat tonight."

"Yes, but, well…I could walk you home if you wanted. The gangs are less likely to attack a pair."

"That's a sweet offer, but aren't you still working?"

Garret looked around the saloon: there were only a few patrons still drinking; the rest had either stumbled home or retreated to one of the back rooms with a prostitute. The only other "employee" still downstairs was Isabela, who was very tipsy and looking as if she might soon be giving Fenris a personal table dance. Anders had followed his gaze around the room and once their eyes met, he offered a lopsided grin.

"I'll be fine. Finish your shift and go home to your family. Perhaps we'll see one another again someday."

"Well, you know where to find me." Garret tried to make the remark sound witty, but it was still tinged with nervousness.

"Good night, Garret."

"Good night, Anders."

_Upper East Apartments_

_September 30, 12:02 PM_

Betrayal.

That was the only way to put it. Carver had betrayed him. The punk had deliberately set out to sabotage him and the only thing Garret wanted at that moment was to bloody the little bastard's smug face.

Carver stood in the hallway, a bag with his few belongings slung over one shoulder; Leandra was seated at the kitchen table, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed silently; Gamlen stood behind her, unsure of what to do and looking very uncomfortable with the whole situation; Garret was blocking the younger man's path to the front door, trying to control his mounting anger.

"Move, Garret," Carver demanded.

"Explain this to me again: I tell you to get a job, and you join a fucking _detective agency? _Do you even realize what they _are?"_

"They are some of the only people fighting against the injustices you perpetuate!"

"They're thugs, you fool! Thugs hired out to the highest bidder to subjugate the lower classes! You talk so high and mighty about how horrible a person _I _am only to turn around and join up with a band of even worse villains!"

"Get out of my way." Carver's eyes were narrowed dangerously.

"Look at what you're doing to your family!"

"I'm trying to _help _my family!"

"So this is what you do? _Break_ your mother's heart? _Betray_ your own brother?"

"It always has to be about you, doesn't it? This world is much bigger than you, brother, and it's time I found my place in it!"

"Not like this! Please, Carver, think this through. I'll help you find honest work, far away from this path and my own. We can—"

"_NO!"_

Garret barely had time to dodge the clumsy fist thrown at his face, ducking down beneath the swing as Carver threw all of his weight into that leading fist. From this position, it was easy for Garret to use the tension in his knees to shoot up and slam his head into his brother's chin, wincing only slightly at the painful impact. Leandra was screaming something from the kitchen, but the brothers were far past hearing her: blood pumping in their ears; adrenaline burning through their veins.

Carver staggered back a couple of steps—blood trickling over his lower lip—and Garret took the opening, launching himself forward with a quick jab to the younger man's chest. What Carver often forgot was that his brother was an ex-hood from a once-reputable gang. Whereas the younger Hawke had always remained under the protective wing of their mother, the older Hawke had fought and bled and honed his muscles as he defended gang territory and punished those who didn't pay their debts. Garret had been fighting for his life from a young age; Carver fought only when it suited him, and those times it was usually a verbal spar.

With the odds weighed against him, it was inevitable that the younger brother would wind up on his back in the hallway, Garret's weight pressing down on his torso as he pummeled the hapless young man senseless. Leandra was pulling at Garret's arms, screaming, but he could hear nothing beyond the roaring of his own anger and see nothing beyond the haze of red edging in around his eyes.

Carver wondered for a brief moment if he might die. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but in a way even that would manage to damage his brother who would forever be on the run for manslaughter. But at the same time, he was terrified. Seventeen was too young; there was so much he had yet to see, to do, to know, to love…

As suddenly as it had begun, the one-sided fight ended. Garret's fists ceased their assault as he slumped forward, unconscious. Carver looked up through swollen eyes to where Leandra stood, a cast-iron frying pan held in her shaking hands. Tears streamed over her cheeks as she stared down at her sons. There was horror in her eyes as she looked between them, wondering if perhaps she had killed one to save the other.

Gamlen appeared then to move Garret's considerable weight off of Carver who sucked in a lungful of air through bloody teeth. The older man held his hand over Garret's mouth and nose, sighing in relief as warm breath washed over his fingers.

"He's alive." He looked over his shoulder. "Leandra, dear, put the pan away and grab some clean cloths."

She nodded numbly, stumbling into the kitchen. Gamlen turned back to Carver who was struggling to sit up. He sighed again, this time in disappointment.

"You know better, boy. You can hate your brother all you want, but you should know better than to provoke him."

"He desherved eht."

"Be that as it may, you'd best keep in mind that your brother sacrificed a lot to keep your family alive. He may not have the best methods, but he's still a good man and it wouldn't kill you to listen to him every now and again."

Carver started to snort in derision—only to gasp as pain shot through his broken nose. Gamlen just shook his head.

"Let your mother clean you up a bit, and then you are free to go wherever you want. I won't stop you. But make sure that you're doing the _right _thing, not just what you hope will best anger him."

When Garret finally awoke, Carver was gone. There was little he could do now, and he sorely regretted losing his temper. Had he been able to keep his cool, there might have been a chance Garret could have talked some sense into the impetuous youth. But now…now he wondered if this scar would ever heal between them. If there was anything Carver was good at, it was holding grudges.

And this time, Garret couldn't blame him.

While Leandra mourned the loss of her child and Garret wondered when the chains would be thrown about his wrists, the sky outside let forth a great belch of thunder before it began to pour.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

_Warehouse District_

_October 21, 11:24 PM_

It was a cold night, heralding the onset of winter. There was no moon and the stars' shine seemed muted behind a thin layer of clouds, shrouding the foreboding alleys of downtown New York in inky darkness. It was the sort of night where decent people stayed at home, for there was no telling what terrible things might happen in the dark but it was assured that you would never be found.

Garret stood in that darkness, huddled in his coat as he waited for Varric's new contact to appear. A few weeks back, his boss had sat his employees down and explained their financial situation. The prostitutes weren't overly happy about having to pay more out of their own pocket, but in the end they all agreed to do so; they had become too accustomed to their rather lavish lifestyle and not having to worry about food every day.

With that taken care of, Varric had then herded Garret into his private office. It wasn't often that the young man was called in here, and for a moment the fear that he might be let go flickered through his mind. Without this job, how would his family live? Leandra and Gamlen relied on this paycheck and it was highly unlikely that Garret would be able to find anything that paid nearly as much—not to mention that a resume of "illegal alcohol salesman" probably wouldn't help him much when searching for other work.

"I'm going to offer you a proposition, Garret. If you don't like what you're hearing, feel free to walk away. I won't force you into anything."

"I'm not a hit man, Varric," Garret quipped, desperately hoping that he hadn't hit the nail on the head.

Luckily, that made the man laugh. "Nothing so drastic, I assure you. But it will involve a great deal of personal risk, so I want you to think long and hard before you accept what I offer."

Garret swallowed past the nervous lump growing in his throat. "Well, don't keep us in suspense."

"I've found a new business partner. I won't go into the specifics of our arrangement, but in short: he'll supply me with alcohol so long as I supply a safe haven for his bootleggers. What I need is a go-between: someone I can trust to handle the transactions, keep an eye on his men, and make sure that my product arrives safely. Understand?"

"Yes." He had seen such arrangements many times before—hell, he'd done the same job Varric was asking of him now. Garret hadn't expected to be pushed back into that position, but…

"Good. I trust you, Garret, to make sure that this guy doesn't short me. But this is no simple job. If you accept, there will always be the risk that something could go wrong—gangsters aren't trustworthy. I have faith that you can handle it."

That had been the proposition and now here Garret stood, weeks later, waiting for his contact to show. This was their first meeting and although Garret knew what he was doing, he couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. In a way, this was no different than his previous life, except that it paid quite a bit more.

_How do I always get myself into these situations? _He asked himself—not for the first time.

"I think that's our man." Aveline's voice was a welcome strength at his side; she didn't agree with any of this, but like him had gone against her better judgment for the pay.

Garret looked up to where he could just barely make out a shadowy figure approaching them from the opposite end of the alley. The dark night was helpful in disguising their movements, but it sure made things seem more sinister. The figure appeared as nothing more than a blurred shadow with grotesque shadows lumping in around it. Perhaps the man was hunched over and that was why it looked like he had no head; or perhaps demons were real and Garret would finally get to discover whether or not Hell existed.

He muttered a quick prayer beneath his breath for the former.

Sure enough, as the figure moved closer into the small ring of light let off by the guttering torch Aveline held, their contact revealed himself as a slight man donned in a heavy coat and wool hat that obscured his form and face. Garret inwardly chided himself for allowing childish fantasies to plague his mind as he squared his shoulders to face the man.

"Zevran Arianai, I presume?" Garret said, his deep voice rumbling in the cold emptiness of the night.

"Indeed I am." The man pulled his hat back a bit and lifted his face to match Garret's gaze with a pair of amber eyes that seemed to be laughing. "But please, my friends call me Zev."

His voice held a deep Italian accent, his skin a smooth bronze from a childhood spent in sunnier pastures. For a moment, Garret found his eyes drifting across the slender body, wondering what that coat hid…

Zevran seemed to understand what was on the young man's mind and he shifted a bit, amber eyes gleaming deviously. "Aren't you a catch? It will be far from a hardship to get better acquainted, no?"

Aveline elbowed Garret from behind and he quickly regained his composure. "Do you have the supply?"

"Ah, straight to business, I see. It does not always hurt to add a little foreplay, my friend." Zevran winked. "Remember that."

"Just get on with the transaction," Aveline growled. "I didn't come here to listen to your silver tongue."

"My tongue is quite a bit more talented than that, I assure you." Another wink, and then the man was motioning for them to follow before either of them could make another retort. Garret felt into the pocket of his own overcoat to check that the comfortable weight of his revolver was still there. Hopefully he wouldn't need it, but he had learned through much trial and error to always bring along a "bargaining chip" just in case matters went sideways fast.

Zevran led them to the entrance of a small, nondescript warehouse just a few blocks away. They were near to the docks and Garret could feel the cool, salty air of the ocean drifting over his skin. He was reminding himself to find a warmer jacket as he watched the Italian's lithe fingers insert an old key into the padlock holding the door shut. With a few swift movements, the lock was removed and the door swung open. Zevran swept one arm out as he bowed low in front of the open portal.

"_Benvenuto! _Please, after you."

"You first," Garret said.

"You think me capable of deception?" Zevran straightened and held a hand over his heart with a look of mock hurt on his face. "Such suspicion! You wound me, my friend!"

"Just show us the damn stock," Aveline snapped. The burly redhead had little patience for fools.

"Ah, but I fear my heart may never mend." There was a smile in the man's eyes as he spoke, turning with a dramatic flourish to enter the building first. "It will be hard for us to be friends if you do not show a little trust, no?"

"We're not friends, we're business associates," Garret said.

"Why not both?"

Garret sighed. "Please, just show us what you have. I'd like to get home before daylight."

"Very well." Zevran started in, then paused. The warehouse was even darker than the streets; Aveline's torch could only show the shadowed outline of the Italian's face as he turned and regarded the pair curiously. "It just occurred to me that I do not even know your names. This is a bad way to start a business association, no?"

"I'm Garret. She's Aveline."

"Garret and Aveline…strong names indeed. It is no wonder our mutual benefactor chose employees such as you to carry out this kind of work."

"You're stalling again."

"Ah! Forgive me! My tongue does enjoy running away." Zevran's wink was aimed at the Irish woman this time, followed by a low laugh as Garret stepped in between the pair to keep his friend from charging forward.

"Right this way, my fearless associates." The Italian started walking deeper into the warehouse, seeming not to need any light to know where he was headed. Garret tried to keep a similar composure, but every now and again he would trip over his own feet or a rough patch of concrete on the floor; from the low curses being muttered behind him, he knew Aveline wasn't faring any better.

Finally, Zevran halted and knelt down in front of something that looked to Garret like nothing more than a giant blob of shadow. The Italian motioned for the torch to be brought forward and Aveline complied, grumbling beneath her breath. As the small circle of light fell over the blob, Garret sucked in a sharp breath. Not just one blob, but _dozens—_perhaps even more, hidden in the inky darkness of the warehouse's grip. From what Garret could see, their contact had enough liquor to supply the Hanged Man for months—and that was with a busy crowd each night!

"Not bad, no?" Zevran was watching his face with a self-satisfied smirk. "It won't be possible to move it all tonight, but we have at least a couple more nights under the new moon. Should be enough time to transport it to your patron's bar."

"How did you get all of this?" Garret breathed.

Zevran waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. "It's a long, boring story. Let's get started while the night is young. You brought a buggy, no?"

"Y-yes. It's down the next alley."

"Well then, my good man! Bring it around and we shall start loading it up!"

Garret obeyed and within a couple of hours they had an entire horse-drawn wagon loaded with the illegal merchandise. They pulled a large canvas over the bottles and tied them to the four ends of the cart, securing the load as best they could. Chances were good that any divots in the road might jostle the wagon and thus sprinkle the night with the sound of tinkling glass, but Garret was hoping that they wouldn't meet anyone along the way. Fenris had agreed to take charge of this route tonight and so long as the officer completed his end of the bargain, they wouldn't see any stray cops wandering about.

Aveline jumped up into the driver's seat and took the reins, gently whipping their old nag into ambling. The wagon was heavy enough and so Garret and Zevran were forced to walk behind it. Garret assumed that time was nearing one or two 'o' clock by now and he distantly felt a little guilty that he would not make it home in time once again.

_At least Carver won't be there to hound me, _he reminded himself, but it was little comfort.

"You don't seem the sort to be working in this sort of business, if you don't mind me saying."

Garret looked over at Zevran who was regarding him with hooded eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"I've spent my fair share of time around the tough sort both here and back in _Italia. _They always have a certain air about them, no? You, my friend, do not have that air."

"Are you implying I'm not tough?"

"Not at all," he replied with a chuckle. "I imply only that your brand of toughness does not seem suited for this work. Neither does lovely Aveline's, for that matter. The woman is scary—no doubt—but it seems to me as if you'd both be better suited to a life of legality."

Garret shrugged, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the man's scrutiny. "Work is work. We do what we have to in order to survive."

"Ah, from your mouth to my own heart, _signore_. I understand and I am not judging. I was merely making an observation, _sì_?"

They made it the rest of the way to the saloon in silence and without incidence. Aveline parked the wagon in the alley behind the bar before moving back to the front to open the back door while Garret and Zevran began untying and unloading its contents. Moments later, Aveline appeared once more behind the back set of double doors. The "back door" was really more of a cellar door that led into the bar's basement, and it was down a long flight of cement stairs that the trio carried their cargo.

It took about half an hour to get all the crates into the cellar. Once they were done, Garret and Zevran went inside and locked the cellar door behind them while Aveline led their horse to the small stable Varric kept behind the saloon to get the nag rubbed down and fed. Zevran followed Garret up into the main parlor of the bar—which was empty—and then up the small flight of stairs to Varric's office.

"Come in," the man's muffled voice bade from the other side of the door when Garret knocked.

Garret held the door open for Zevran before stepping in behind him and softly shutting the wooden portal, so as not to wake any of the prostitutes or any customers they might still be entertaining. The Italian removed his coat and hat, handing them both to Garret who hung them on the nondescript coat rack next to the door. Now that he was no longer obscured by the heavy garments, Garret noticed how slender the man really was, from his long neck to his narrow hips and beyond. The way he moved reminded the young man of Isabela as he gracefully swayed with each step before gently lowering himself in the straight-backed chair positioned in front of Varric's desk.

There was something enchanting about him, and yet Garret felt little sexual attraction. For the first time in weeks, he found himself thinking of Anders. How was it that the fairy had enchanted him where this man did not? Anders was far more muscular and if anything Zevran struck a more "pansy-like" picture than the blonde; and yet it was still the imprint of Anders's eyes that made Garret feel hot, not Zevran's mischievous amber gaze.

"Since you are here, I'll assume that it was a success." Varric leaned back in his own chair, appraising the Italian with a studious gaze.

"But of course! Your new product is stashed safely in the cellar, as promised."

"All of it?"

"Alas, but it would not all fit in your wagon. If I may borrow young Garret and lovely Aveline again in a couple of nights, we will have the rest safely delivered as well."

"Why wait? Couldn't you transport the rest tonight?"

"We could, but I think that unwise. The officer under your pay will look less suspicious if we space out the times of delivery and I'd rather not tread the same paths twice in so short a time. This is valuable, dangerous cargo after all, no?"

Varric had been nodding throughout the explanation. "I understand. The supply and danger are yours, so I trust that you know what you're doing. Just keep in mind my own people being placed at risk in this situation, as well."

"You needn't worry about that. Garret and I have become _buoni amici_," he looked over his shoulder at the young man and winked, "have we not?"

Garret rolled his eyes and remained silent; Zevran chuckled. "See? Good friends. And I would sooner take my own life than risk the health of my friends."

"I'll hold you to that. Now, concerning prices…"

Garret listened to the pair haggle for a little while, but exhaustion was quickly catching up with him. It was closer to three than two now and the only thing he wanted to do was head home to his warm bed and sleep for a week. Varric noticed that his bartender was falling asleep standing up and bade the young man to leave. It would be a good idea to keep a close eye on Zevran, but it was unlikely that the sly Italian would try anything funny. After all, it benefitted him more to keep this business with Varric than to betray the saloon owner.

Aveline was just entering the bar when Garret reached the main parlor and he paused a moment to fill her in on what he could remember. She shooed him out the door before heading up the stairwell to Varric's room to play as bodyguard; it was rare that the Irish woman trusted anyone, but she seemed to have a certain personal animosity towards smooth-talking Italians. Or maybe it was just Zevran. Either way, Garret knew he didn't want to get in the middle of that confrontation.

For some reason, Garret found that from the moment Anders had entered his thoughts, he couldn't shake the image of the man's face from the forefront of his mind. He hadn't seen the blonde since that night at the bar which had been nearly a month ago. Back then, Garret had hoped that Anders might make it a nightly habit to sit and visit; but after the first week had passed and he hadn't shown himself, the young man had given up that hope. A part of him had wanted to go and see the fairy—Garret did know where he lived, after all—but every time he started in that direction, his mind would invent some excuse that would instantly have him turning back around.

It was a strange paradox Garret found himself trapped in: his body and heart desired to see Anders, to talk to him, but his mind was too afraid that talk might lead to something else. The city accepted fairies as a normal fixture for the most part, but there were still societal undertones that controlled a man's life and made him less likely to step into the unknown. Garret valued his privacy and the last thing he wanted was to bring attention to himself by being seen walking down the street with a beautiful man on his arm. What would mother think?

And yet it seemed that his body was in control that night, for when Garret finally tuned into his surroundings, he realized that his instincts had not led him home but rather to the rundown tenement building where Anders lived.

He gazed up at the dark windows, torn. His legs wanted to keep moving towards the door—his heart was saying "You've already come this far, might as well." But his mind was trying to shut off everything else as it warned him against this line of action. "Go home," it said. "Turn around and go home."

But Garret was tired and it was unlikely that his legs would have carried him all the way back across town, anyways. So it was that he began up the steps to the tenement building, heart pounding in anticipation.

There was a slim, gaudily-dressed figure seated on the low stone railing of the stairwell. As Garret approached, the figure straightened elegantly and moved towards him, the edges of a faded satin dress sweeping delicately across the ground.

"Good evening, hon," an obviously masculine voice said from the face of a handsome woman. "Looking for some fun?"

"N-No. Sorry." Vaguely, Garret recognized the fairy from that first night Anders had brought him here. There had been a few of them gathered around the stairs then, all chatting and giggling like girls as their eyes followed him inside.

"Hmph. Well, that's a shame." A pale hand reached out to gently press against Garret's bearded cheek. "You and I could have a lot of fun together."

"Do you know Anders?" Garret asked, resisting the urge to take a step back. Insulting the fairy would not help him find the blonde.

"Anders? Why?" Emerald eyes regarded him shrewdly. But before Garret could attempt to explain himself, those eyes widened and the fairy gasped. "Wait…I know you. You're the delicious piece Anders brought home a while back! How could I forget that face?"

"Um, yes, well…do you know where Anders is? I…need to talk to him."

The fairy's face fell a bit and he began to chew on his bottom lip nervously. Garret felt apprehension grip the base of his spine.

"Well, you see…"

"Is he all right? What happened?" Garret started walking past the man towards the building. Slender hands gripped his arm, trying to stop him.

"Wait! You shouldn't go up there!"

Garret rounded on the fairer man, exhaustion forgotten and eyes blazing. "Unless you plan on stopping me, I suggest you stand aside."

"Ohh, scary." The fairy rolled his eyes but released the young man's arm all the same. "If you're going to be stubborn, I'll walk you up. Just…try to stay calm."

And of course, Garret did just the opposite.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**: As of right now, this is the last chapter I have written for this story. It's been a while since I've played DA2 or dabbled in US History, so I'm afraid my muse is a bit…stunted. If I can find the will to continue, I will, but until such a time I want to apologize to those who have read and enjoyed this story. Honestly, I enjoy reading it as well (even if the little mistakes I keep finding are driving me up a damn wall) but writer's block is a bitch and apparently has decided to censor stories which means the full extent of my story (mature content and all) can't exactly be realized.

(Oh, and the A/N at the end was written a while back. It sounds a bit ramble-ish, but I'm not sure how to change it. I just know I was trying to make a point…oh well, hehe.)

Six

_West Downtown Tenements_

_October 22, 3:27 AM_

There was an ugly anger gaining strength within Garret, punctuated by an anxiety that seemed to throb in time with his frantic pulse. Had he paused to think about it, Garret might have wondered why it was that these emotions afflicted him so strongly; after all, he hadn't seen Anders in nearly a month. Hadn't spoken to him. Hadn't dreamt of him after that first week of absence. Perhaps it was simply because he was tired or that Zevran had woken something in him. Whatever the reason, Garret knew that the longer it took for him to see Anders for himself—to make sure that he was alive and well—his anger would continue to grow.

God help any who got in his way then.

The halls leading to Anders's apartment seemed to stretch on into eternity; Serendipity's steady pace was maddeningly slow. Garret wanted to shove past the fairy and run the rest of the way, but he held himself in check. He didn't know what had happened, but this man was willing to help him now and that might be his only key into Anders's home.

When they reached Anders's room, Serendipity softly knocked on the dilapidated wood. Garret fidgeted behind him, subconsciously wondering how much force it would take to kick the portal down. Probably not much considering how damaged it already was. A well-aimed boot or a heavy shoulder, and he—

The door cracked open and a pair of red-rimmed blue eyes peered out at them. Beneath the haggard lines and sunken flesh of exhaustion, the face belonged to a fairy who was probably quite fetching when properly cleaned up. Light red hair fell in ragged lines around a slender face full of weary annoyance and suspicion.

"What do you want?" The hoarseness of the voice nearly overshadowed the lilting charm that lingered just beneath the surface.

"Anders has a visitor," Serendipity said.

"He's not taking visitors. Go away."

The last vestiges of Garret's patience snapped and he quickly surged forward as the door began to close, using his superior height and strength to keep the portal open. The haggard fairy tried to shove him away, but Garret easily forced him and the door aside as he strode into the room, anger burning in his wake.

"How dare you!" the redhead shrieked. "Get out! Get out now!"

"Jethann…"

That voice…so familiar, and yet so _wrong. _Garret's gaze fell on the little bed he had once woken up in so long ago and his knees suddenly felt week as his fury faded. Anders sat up, though it was an obvious effort; his face was a mass of ugly, purpling bruises; his nose was askew, broken; and his eyes…one was swollen over while the other stared at Garret without really seeing him.

"Jethann, what's going on?"

"This brute forced his way inside! Don't worry, hun, I'll—"

"Brute?" The man's good eye squinted, trying to focus. "Garret?"

Garret took an unsteady step forward.

"Yes." His voice sounded meek even to his own ears.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" Garret didn't really have an answer. Instinct had blindly led him to this tenement and anger had fueled his path to this room. Beyond that…the young man truly didn't know why he had chosen to come. But he knew it wasn't to see Anders like this.

"Nevermind." Anders shifted, wincing. "Jethann, you can go. Get yourself some rest."

"Anders, are you sure?" Jethann stood just behind Garret, gaze flickering between intruder and friend.

"Don't worry. Get some sleep."

The redhead hesitated a moment longer before grudgingly heading to the door where Serendipity waited, emerald eyes smoldering as he stared at Garret's muscular back. Jethann grasped his friend's arm to lead him away, gently closing the door behind them.

Garret continued to stand in place, not sure what he should do. A part of him wanted to go to Anders's side; a much larger part of him wanted to rip apart whoever had committed this crime. For the first time since the night he had rescued Anders from the hoods in that alley, Garret wanted blood.

"Make yourself at home," Anders said. "And please excuse the mess. I…haven't had time to straighten up. Jethann's a good man, but not a good housekeeper." He smiled slightly beneath the bruising.

"What…happened?" His voice was still meek and halting.

Anders waved one hand in a noncommittal gesture. "Don't worry about it. Bruises and bones will heal. If you'd like, though, you can fetch my first aid kit. In the kitchen, right cupboard above the stove."

Garret quickly moved to obey, hands shaking as he opened the specified cupboard and lifted down a small wooden box. He was shaking so badly that the box slipped from his grasp and hit the floor, opening and scattering little vials of ointment and bandages every which way. Cursing, Garret knelt down and began gathering the supplies together. Only one vial had broken; the rest had merely rolled every which way across the floor. Anders was beside him then, wincing as he knelt down and picked up a little tan bottle that had made its way on the other side of the table.

"Y-you shouldn't be up. I'm the idiot who dropped it, let me—"

"Shut up."

Garret's jaw snapped closed. They finished gathering the supplies in silence, Garret accepting the little vials that Anders handed him and carefully returning them to the box. When they were finished, Anders tried to stand back up only to stumble. Garret quickly moved to his side, not sure what to do but anxious to help.

"Would you…help me get back to the bed?" Anders's breathing was ragged now, body trembling in pain.

Carefully, Garret lifted one of the blonde's arms over his shoulder. His movements were slow and steady as he levered the man off the floor and even slower as they made their way to the bed. Anders sagged against him, panting. It was obvious from the way his feet shuffled that his legs, too, were in great pain. With each labored, shaky step, Garret felt his heart breaking.

When Garret finally lowered Anders back into his bed—drawing the covers up over his trembling body—the man was only half-conscious. Garret returned to the kitchen to collect the first aid kit, making certain that he had a firm hold on it as he made his way to Anders's side. There was a little chair next to the bed—probably where Jethann had been keeping vigil—and Garret lowered himself into it. He opened the box and looked around at the supplies, wondering what ointment would help the badly injured man.

"T-The…white one," Anders rasped. "It's a…bruise salve."

Garret procured the proper bottle and handed it to Anders. The man attempted to unstopper the vial, hands shaking. After a moment of watching the struggle, Garret gently took the bottle back, opened it, and poured a small amount of cool ointment into his palm. He forced his own hands to stop shaking as he reached forward to softly spread the concoction over Anders's ruined face. The blonde winced a bit, but otherwise stayed silent, good eye closed as the medicine worked its magic.

"Thank you," Anders said when Garret had finished; his voice was beginning to even out once more. "There should be a little tan bag in there full of herbs." Garret located it and lifted it out of the box. "Yes, good. Would you mind mixing that with some hot water? The kettle should be on the stove. I think Jethann filled it."

Time passed as Garret followed each of Anders's careful instructions, administering the aid the blonde desperately needed. After a while, Anders drifted off and Garret was left alone to sit a silent vigil at the man's bedside. Exhaustion lingered at the edges of his mind, but he found that he couldn't sleep just yet. He was afraid that Anders might wake up and need something; he was afraid that the peace of the little apartment might soon be interrupted by someone looking to finish the cruel job they had started.

The latter was also half a hope for Garret; his fury had receded for now, but he could still feel it burning deep within. There would be no mercy for this. No mercy.

_7:34 AM_

Anders awoke to a throbbing skull and a burning pain deep within his body, stemming from the junction of his legs. He remembered what had happened, of course—how could he forget?—but as far as anyone knew, the trauma had affected his memory. Jethann had an idea, but he would not hear the affirmation from Anders's lips. This was a danger of their occupation and one could either accept it or try to make a living another way.

He tried to shift only to be stopped by something heavy resting on the right side of his bed. Anders opened his good eye and looked over to where Garret was slumped down on the edge of the bed, snoring softly. His back was contorted in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable; his girth dwarfed the little chair he sat in and the ridiculous sight made Anders smile.

The memories from earlier that morning eased back into his mind from Garret's noisy arrival to the gentle treatment he had provided. Anders reached over and ran a hand through the young man's dark hair with sweet fondness. He had distanced himself from Garret and the Hanged Man after that last night, believing that it would be best if the young bartender forgot all about him. For a while there, Anders thought he had. Secretly he had hoped that Garret might appear at his doorstep, ready to reconsider his position and give in to the feelings Anders knew lingered beneath the surface.

Now Anders's wish had come true, only at the worst possible time.

Garret began to shift and Anders withdrew his hand, watching as the young man's eyes fluttered open. Groaning, Garret straightened his back and twisted his neck from side to side, wincing as his joints popped and the muscles stretched. His gaze swept back down to where he finally noticed Anders watching him, smiling slightly.

"Good morning, Garret," Anders said.

"G-good morning. How are you…feeling?"

Anders shrugged. "Better. And you? I can't imagine sleeping in that chair was very comfortable."

The man's face was a still a mess of bruises, though there was a slight improvement from earlier that morning. Whatever ointment Anders had had him use obviously had worked quite well, though it would still take another week or two for the wounds to heal completely. But his nose would forever be slightly misshapen, giving Anders a more rugged look at the cost of his once-perfect appearance.

"I'm fine." Garret shifted nervously. "Do you…need anything?"

"Some more tea would be nice."

"Sure. I'll go turn the stove on."

Anything to keep him from asking, to keep him from knowing. That was what Anders was doing. Garret knew what he did—_who _he did, rather—but this…having the young man know this awful truth was too much. Anders rummaged through the first aid kit Garret had left sitting on the little night stand next to his bed, pulling out a few items and slowly administering some quick healing to himself while Garret waited for stove's fire to warm his kettle of water.

_What am I doing here? _It wasn't the first time he had asked that question, and yet Garret knew it would persist until an answer was found.

But then, it wasn't as if anyone was waiting up for him. He'd told Mother that work would keep him late and that he might not make it home; this was his well-deserved day off so no one at the Hanged Man would be expecting his arrival; and…well…the only other thing Garret normally did in his free time was try to find out where his brother had ended up. It seemed strange that he'd had no word or sign of Carver since that day Garret had nearly ended the boy's life in a fit of rage. Not that Garret expected a letter or even forgiveness for his actions, but surely _someone _would have noticed the young Hawke out on the streets.

There wasn't a day that Garret didn't wake up consumed by guilt. Anger had always been his worst enemy, in a sense. It was the one thing that—when unleashed—he had little control over. In public, Garret always kept a smile on his face and a witty quip on the tip of his tongue in an attempt to hide the beast that lingered within.

Malcolm Hawke had noticed the "disease" within his son at a young age and had tried to help him find a means of power over it. But then he had been killed during the slaughter of the Great War and Leandra had taken her young children back to America, hoping to escape the carnage. They had traveled across the faces of several states looking for a home—always in poverty—before Leandra had finally managed to make contact with her brother in New York. It was then that they learned her parents were dead but that she and her family were welcome to return home.

Garret had been sixteen by then and well-immersed in gang politics; Carver had been thirteen.

Bethany had still been alive then, too…

The kettle began whistling angrily, shattering Garret's train of thought. He quickly turned off the fire and poured a cup of steaming water before adding Anders's special herbal mixture. Turning back to the bed, Garret carefully walked across the floor and set the scalding mug down on the nightstand.

"Thank you," Anders said, setting a vial back in his kit before closing the box and leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

They sat in silence for a little while, Anders staring at the ceiling while Garret stared at the floor. Garret wanted to ask for the names so he could have an outlet for his anger, but that seemed churlish. The last thing Anders wanted to think about, surely, was what had happened. Once the man was healed, though, Garret swore that he would find them, no matter who they might be.

"So how have you been?"

The question took Garret off-guard. Or perhaps it was more the tone of Anders's voice, so calm and natural, so far removed from this room as if he was just meeting an old friend on the street rather than a crazed young man breaking into his apartment; as if he weren't lying in a bed full of pain.

"I…can't really complain, I guess." The question _And you? _almost slipped out, but luckily Garret realized how absurd that would be to ask.

"I trust the Hanged Man is still in one piece?"

"Yes. We've got a new…business partner and things are turning up a bit."

"That's good. Mr. Tethras owns one of the last good bars in the city. I'd hate to see it get shut down."

"Yeah…me too."

"And your family?" Anders continued, good eye watching Garret.

"M-my mother is…well, she's all right. A bit depressed, I guess. Not sure what I can do, though."

"Depressed? Why?"

"Well, I have a little brother, you see, and he…well…he left under…tense circumstances."

"Oh?"

Garret sighed; the last thing he wanted to talk about was the beating he had given Carver when the man next to him had undergone something very similar. But Anders's gaze was relentless and Garret knew that he hadn't changed. He would do anything those eyes asked of him.

"I…lost my head. I don't remember everything that happened, but I know that I bloodied him pretty badly. Mother was forced to knock me out to get me off of him and when I woke up later, he was gone. Went off to join one of those corrupt detective agencies. I tried to talk him out of it, but…well…my brother has a stubborn streak."

Anders smiled softly. "Seems like that's a familial trait."

Garret couldn't help but return the gesture. "I guess so."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Give him some time and I'm sure that he'll come to his senses. He can't be a complete idiot—I mean, he's related to you after all."

"Does that make me only a part idiot?"

Anders's smile turned wolfish. "I'm sorry my friend, but yes."

Garret started to laugh only to find that he couldn't stop. It felt as if it had been such a long time since he had done so and the floodgates had opened wide. After a moment, Anders joined him and the last vestiges of Garret's anger were snuffed out.

_RIIB Main HQ_

_7:45 AM_

Carver's jaw popped as his mouth opened in a huge yawn. Nearly every muscle in his body ached, not the least bit because he had been sleeping on a poor excuse for a cot the last month. He had once thought that his bed back home had been pathetic, but at least it had had cushions and warmth; at least he didn't wake up feeling as if someone had been dancing the Remigold along his spine.

He quickly pushed those thoughts away. Whenever he thought of home, Carver inevitably felt the welling of guilt deep within his gut. Mother's face, tear-stained and tormented…Gamlen's disappointment…Brother's anger…his hurt…

Carver had wanted a life of his own, but not at that cost. He hadn't wanted to leave like that.

His face had healed from Garret's beating, but he would forever hold the scars of the conflict in the form of a crooked nose, a pale scar that stretched over his left cheekbone, and a deep resentment fed constantly by his own stubbornness. Carver wanted to talk to his brother again but every time the opportunity presented itself, he always backed out. He didn't hate his brother by any means: he just didn't want his life to be known as nothing more than a shadow.

He didn't want to die like Bethany, whose memory would fade away once her family passed on.

"You awake yet, runt? We've got work to do."

Carver glared up at the man who—officially—was his "mentor" in his new line of work. His name was Horace and he seemed to bear outright hatred for his young charge though Carver had done nothing to merit the disdain. When Meeran—the leader of the Red Iron Investigation Bureau, or RIIB as the world knew them—had agreed to hire Carver on, the young man had been ecstatic and desperate to prove his worth. It would be the first time in his life that he would have to hold his own and show that he was more than just a sniveling child huddled in the shadow of an older brother.

"I'm awake. Give me a minute to get dressed."

Horace spat on the floor near him. "Hurry up, runt. I ain't got all day."

What Carver _hadn't _planned on was having to deal with bastards like Horace. They were supposed to be on the same team—the "good guys"—and yet Carver found it difficult to distinguish this pathetic, embittered man from the few hoods he had met when Garret had run the streets.

But he _wouldn't_ admit that Garret might have been right. He _couldn't _go crawling home now.

It only took a minute for Carver to slip into a pair of breeches and a loose shirt. Despite being an agency supposedly linked to the police department, the employees of the RIIB didn't wear uniforms. Meeran had explained once that they were _investigators _and not _enforcers _and thus it paid to dress casually: the better to blend in with a crowd.

That hadn't been a complete lie; wearing normal clothes certainly did give them an advantage of sneaking into irate crowds without instantly alerting every criminal to the arrival of authority. But so far, Carver had yet to do any _actual _investigating. The few jobs he had been taken on involved a club and a crowd of men—and even women—on strike. Meeran would point the way and say "Break this rabble up!" and immediately the RIIB "investigators" would wade in and start cracking skulls. Carver pulled his punches for the most part, wondering just what purpose this work served. Most of these people were just poor folk who were tired of being treated like chattel. Was that really so wrong?

And yet the police force supported them whole-heartedly—even joining in on occasion, pulling out their batons and beating the usually unarmed folk into submission before throwing them in prison for doing nothing more than publicly voicing their discontent.

A part of Carver knew this was wrong, and yet his stubbornness prevailed. He had chosen this path and he would stick with it; surely that was better than admitting his brother was right.

"What's the job today?" Carver asked.

"Some angry folk down in the Garment District. Meeran says—"

"Investigate and quiet things down, right?"

Horace sneered at him. "Right. Hurry your ass up before I tell Meeran that you're not earning your paycheck."

With a sigh, Carver buckled on his club and walked out into the cool morning.

**Author's Note:** Decided to write this at the end so I wouldn't spoil anything.

"Detective agencies" like the one Carver joined were, at this time, corrupt organizations. They were hired by rich business owners and politicians to break up strikes and demonstrations (amongst other things) that threatened the general order. So, in a way, my choice of name and leader for this agency are a bit obvious.

If you already know about 1920s American history, then just ignore my explanations. But for those who don't know, I thought it wouldn't hurt to explain my motives a bit. This story is by no means an accurate historical representation of the 1920s in any way, but I am trying to add certain elements while at the same time keeping enough of the Dragon Age world mixed in with the plot.

I thought it rather fitting that Carver join an organization like this as a mirror to his joining the Templars in the game. To me, Garret Hawke (as a mage, anyways) is a representation of a "good bad guy" assuming that you play the apostate as an overall good-guy who is, nonetheless, treated as a criminal by society. Carver, as the whiny little rebel that he is, thinks that joining the Templars will make him a true "good-guy" without realizing the darkness hidden behind the title and the hypocrisy laced within the vows.

I love interactions between these two because (depending on how you perceive the story) on the one hand, you have a character fighting to do right by the people and for the (often) skewed image of liberty and moral justice; on the other hand, you have a character striving to uphold liberty as it is defined by society. It's not always easy to tell who is right and it's not always easy to go against the grain and lose the comfort that society offers—along with all of its restrictions.

Ahhh, but I'm rambling again. Sorry.

To sum up, I love Garret and—despite his whiny, self-righteous little attitude—Carver. I love Bethany too, because she's sweet and intelligent, but given the choice I'd kill her off every time just to have the lovely tension between my boys no matter Garret's class.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: A big "thank you" to those who have reviewed for their kind words. I will try to finish this story even if that means cutting out some of the historical tidbits I had planned inserting within. Lately I have been finding it difficult to separate my "historical-writing brain" from my "creative-writing brain" which makes it a bitch to finish something like this. With classes starting up soon and a little over 20 credit hours to deal with in writing-intensive courses, I won't promise updates will be swift, however.

**CONTENT WARNING: **This chapter will contain suggestive sexual sequences between two men. It will not be anything that is too explicit (as far as I'm concerned), but it will turn a bit raunchy so if that offends you or whatnot, I would suggest skimming over this chapter. And even though it's probably rather obvious by now, this story contains "strong language" periodically throughout.

Seven

_West Downtown Tenements_

_October 26, 5:29 PM_

Days had passed and still Garret had not left Anders's side—except for the few brief hours in which he had returned home to assuage him mother's worries before heading to the Hanged Man to inform Varric that he would need to take some leave in order to deal with some personal business. Varric hadn't been overly pleased—after all, he was counting on Garret to go back out with Zevran and transport the rest of his shipment—but had agreed in the end. They had plenty of stock thanks to the first transport and the Italian had assured him that the rest would remain secure.

Anders's bruise ointment worked magically as his face began to look more normal the second day of Garret's stay. By the third day, Anders was able to walk with only a little stiffness; today, he was almost back to his normal self and the pair were seated at Anders's little dining table playing a game of cards.

Garret had always enjoyed a casual game of Poker, but never really got the chance to play since Isabela always insisted that they play Strip Poker and Carver had never wanted to learn. Anders, though, knew the game well and he was more than happy to just sit and play a few hands with Garret during the long nights.

In a way, Garret felt as if he had never been more at peace in his life. He didn't want his time here to end, but knew that it would have to soon enough. Before, his insistence on staying had been wholly for Anders's benefit—disregarding the fact that the fairy's friends would have gladly stayed to watch over him. Anders had tried to get him to go home during the first couple of days only to relent under the young man's stubbornness. Now, though, there was really no reason for Garret to stay. Anders was well enough to take care of himself and surely any moment he would ask Garret to leave.

Perhaps it was better to walk away before that happened; maybe that would make the pain just a little less acute.

Anders laid his cards down on the table, smirking triumphantly over his heart flush. Garret cursed and threw his own hand down with its pathetic pair of Jacks. Laughing, Anders gathered the cards together and began shuffling.

_Now or never, _Garret told himself, wishing it could be never.

"I guess…I should go home now." He slowly levered himself out of his chair, not looking at Anders lest his resolve crumble. "I mean…I'm sure you want your house back to yourself."

"Oh." Anders stopped shuffling, staring down at the deck of cards in his hands. After a moment, he looked up at Garret with a forced smile. "Well, it'll certainly be quieter, I suppose."

Mistaking the try at humor, Garret felt his heart clench. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstay my welcome." He quickly stepped away from the table; it was as if in that moment, the comfort he had become accustomed to in Anders's presence faded away. He felt like a nervous child again. "I'm…glad you're feeling better. …Bye."

Garret started for the door. Anders watched him go, completely baffled. One moment, they were laughing and joking and acting like good friends; the next, Garret turned into a nervous wall and spoke as if Anders were some kind of angry, authoritative figure.

He didn't want Garret to leave; having the young man here had been…fun. Relaxing. Comfortable. All things that Anders hadn't experienced in a long, long time. Garret's presence was like a soothing balm to his tattered soul and now more than ever, Anders desired him in a way that went beyond friendship. Perhaps it was time to push the young man and see where his feelings lay.

Garret found that he was experiencing a strong déjà vu as Anders walked up behind him and grasped his bicep, pressing the front of his lean body against the young man's side and effectively stopping Garret from leaving. It was all the same, and yet…there was something different this time.

"You don't have to leave, Garret," Anders murmured, gently resting his free hand on the small of the young man's back. "Please…stay."

Déjà vu, and yet this time…this time Garret turned back around. His heart pounded painfully beneath his collarbone as he looked down the few inches into Anders's hypnotic honey-colored eyes. The blonde was smiling at him, the hand on his back moving up to circle Garret's neck. There was still a part of Garret that rebelled against this, but it was losing power as Anders's hand began to apply pressure and his head began to crane forward. Closer and closer, the mixed smell of musk and herbs filling the young man's senses…

When their lips met, an involuntary moan escaped Garret's throat. Instinct led him to wrap his arms around Anders's back so that he could pull the fairy closer, melding their bodies together in a tantalizing embrace. Garret reveled in the warmth that emanated from the blonde's body; in the way that their frantic pulses seemed to be beating as one heart.

Anders pushed his tongue past Garret's slightly parted lips, plundering the younger man's mouth. Garret moaned again, crushing Anders even closer. His pants were uncomfortably tight: the friction of fabric on flesh was beginning to drive him insane. Growling, Garret nudged Anders backwards in the direction of the bed. The blonde smiled against his lips as he obeyed.

Eager hands worked to unbutton shirts and pants as they stumbled towards the bed, their lips only leaving one another long enough to draw a swift breath. Anders's hand on his chest forced Garret to pause, panting. The blonde smiled up at him—_beautiful—_and slowly ran his hands up and under the younger man's shirt. Silk-smooth fingers traced the taut muscles of Garret's chest, moving higher and higher. Biting his lip to suppress a groan, Garret lifted his arms to allow Anders to remove the shirt; once it was gone, the fairy took a step back to survey the uncovered ground. A low rumble rolled up from Anders's chest into his throat: a sound of abject appreciation that sent strong waves of tension straight to Garret's groin.

"Beautiful," Anders breathed, mirroring Garret's earlier thought. Honey eyes raked up the planes of Garret's chest to meet gold, arresting the younger man and sending chills down his spine.

Helpless—though willingly so—Garret watched as Anders's slim fingers moved to the waistband of his trousers. The minute those silken fingertips touched the tender flesh of his lower stomach, Garret moaned; his hands fisted at his sides, knuckles white from a lack of blood-flow, in an effort to resist crushing the fairy to himself once more. As much as he desired to hasten events—to feel those lips on him once more—Garret forced himself to stand still and watch.

Anders's fingers made short work of the clasps on Garret's trousers; before the younger man could even register what was happening, those fingers had then dipped inside, cupping Garret's ample manhood through the thin cloth of his underclothes. Growling, Garret surged forward suddenly, crushing Anders in his arms before throwing them both back on the bed.

Just as Garret moved to capture Anders's lips in another heated kiss, he noticed that something was wrong: the skin around the fairy's eyes and mouth was drawn taught; his skin tone had gone pallid. Leaning back a bit, Garret realized that Anders was trembling, cold sweat soaking through the fabric of his shirt and trousers. Noticing Garret's hesitation, Anders plastered on a weak smile and started to wrap his legs around the bigger man's waist—only to wince in pain as the motion pulled against something that was still oh-so painfully raw.

"A-Anders?" Garret breathed raggedly as he shifted his weight off of the slim man.

"I…I guess…" Anders began, his speech clipped with pain. "I guess…that my body…has not…fully healed." Meekly smiling up at Garret, he continued, "I'm…sorry."

"Don't apologize…" Garret rasped, mind racing in an attempt to cool the fire raging in his groin. His eyes swept over Anders's trembling body before resting on the junction of the fairy's legs where a red stain had begun to form.

It was then that the full impact of the attack on Anders hit him: a stone fist straight through his gut that ripped away everything and left behind an aching chasm. Heat began to build within him, filling and then overflowing until all that Garret could see was a haze of dark crimson. That anger—that deadly emotion his father had tried to tame—snapped at its chains like a wild beast caught deep within the young man's very being.

"Who?" Garret asked in a low, dangerous tone.

"It doesn't matter—"

Garret leaned over Anders's prone form, one rough hand turning the fairy's chin so that he was forced to look into the golden pools of broiling fury that were Garret's eyes.

"Who?" Garret asked again in a way that, while so quiet, left the taste of murder on Anders's suddenly dry tongue. When Anders shook his head, the young man leapt back and propelled himself across the room where, with an animalistic snarl, he buried his fist in the wall next to Anders's lone window. The cheap wood gave easily beneath the assault, revealing a hollow, bloody hole of rotten boards when Garret removed his fist and began pacing the length of the room, growling and seemingly oblivious to the mess of his knuckles.

It was in that moment Anders realized that the coldness gripping his chest was not mere fear, but outright _terror. _When Garret had defended him that night from the hoods in the alley, Anders had witnessed the young man's anger first-hand; but he had not realized how deep the disease ran. Where was the young man who had treated his wounds with such gentle hands? Where was the stammering, adorable fool who had refused to embrace his own feelings?

Levering himself off of the bed carefully, Anders moved towards Garret slowly, hands raised before him and his voice gentle as if he were approaching a skittish dog.

"Garret," he murmured, trying to touch the younger man's arm. "Garret, please…"

Garret whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"…_What?"_ Anders stared at him, terror giving way to utter surprise.

"Why didn't you tell me what they did to you?" Garret demanded in a snarl.

Now it was Anders's turn to swell with anger. "Why didn't I _tell you?"_ Surging forward—his pain momentarily forgotten—Anders slapped Garret across his right cheek before the younger man could react. Face aching, Garret looked at Anders askance. The unbridled fury had faded to the background as shock flooded his features.

"How _dare _you," Anders seethed, body now trembling with rage instead of agony. "I didn't tell you because it was none of your god-damned business! Besides, what did you want me to say? 'Oh, and by the way, after they beat me to a pulp, they fucked me!' Is that what you wanted to hear, Garret?"

The young man said nothing, just stared.

"I know the dangers of my occupation," Anders continued, honey-colored eyes livid. "I let my guard down and I paid the price, but no matter what that is _my business! _Is it not bad enough that it happened? I will carry the consequences of my carelessness to my grave, so don't you _dare _come into _my_ home and behave as if you have some kind of control over _my _life!"

The pair stood in stony silence, staring into one another's eyes. After a few moments, there came an insistent pounding on Anders's front door, followed by the muffled voice of Jethann: "Anders? Is everything all right?"

Finally, Anders lowered his gaze, eyelids sliding shut as he sighed deeply. When he raised those honey-colored eyes to look at Garret once more, the young man noticed that the outrage had slipped into exhaustion. For the first time since they had met, Garret saw not the beautiful fairy that had bewitched him all those weeks ago; he saw only a man who had been beaten down one too many times by the weight of the world that seemed to have settled on his shoulders. Anders was worn; tired; _small…_

"I think you should leave," Anders said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Is that what you want?" Garret asked, surprised a bit by the deadness in his own voice.

For a brief second, those honey-colored eyes flickered with life. But it was not the normal kind of light that Garret had grown accustomed to; rather, it was a deep sorrow he saw glint in those ochre depths. Garret knew his answer before the word had hit the open air, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

"Yes."

Without another word, Garret fastened the clasp to his trousers, grabbed his discarded shirt, and made his way to the door. Jethann waited on the other side and looked as if he were about to start in on the young man—but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the look in Garret's eyes. He hadn't known the dark-haired young man long, but Jethann realized that there was nothing safe about the dead, glassy cast of Garret's gaze. The thought that this man could easily crush his skull in one large hand and probably not even blink ran through Jethann's mind and he shivered.

"Go home, Jethann," Anders said from within the room after Garret's footsteps had disappeared down the stairs.

"But, are you sure—"

Anders turned towards him, gaze flinty. "Go home. I have some business to take care of."

Jethann swallowed nervously as he eased the door shut. "Whatever you say, Anders. You know where to find me if you need anything."

But it was obvious the blonde man was beyond hearing. When the door clicked closed, Jethann found that a hollowness had begun to grow within his breast; the distance between him and his friend continued to grow, and he wondered if either of them would be able to clear the empty chasm between them before it was too late.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

_The Atlantic Ocean_

_December 19, 6:30 PM_

Garret had changed, and none for the better. Varric had watched his bartender closely after Garret had returned to work, noting the cold edge to his words and mannerisms that had not been there before. The young man did not smile anymore; did not laugh. Not even Isabela seemed able to bring Garret out of the dark stupor he had fallen into and, after a round of futile attempts, had given up even trying. The other prostitutes—who had once looked to Garret as a kindred soul, in a sense—now steered clear of the angry bartender, asking for drinks with lowered eyes and hushed voices when customers came a-calling.

As the weeks progressed, Varric found that his clientele was suffering as well. The word from the underground was that customers were looking for new places to drink—even going as far as to haunt infamous downtrodden dives—in an attempt to steer clear of Garret's glowering face.

Varric was loathe to fire the boy in light of his years of loyal service, but it had become apparent that he could no longer keep Garret in a position that required an amiable attitude, especially in the liquor business's current economy. So it was that in the late November of 1921, Varric called the bartender into his office and laid down the facts:

"You're gelding my business, boy," he said, blunt as always. "Our customers are getting fewer and fewer and word on the street is that it's thanks to that sour face of yours."

Garret snorted. "Is it my fault their feelings are so damn fragile?"

Varric's eyes narrowed as he levered his elbows on the desk in front of him, chin leaning forward to rest on the backs of his interlaced fingers as he regarded the young man coolly.

"I don't give a good god-damn about the tender emotions of these people. But I _am_ trying to run a business here and if playing nice is what brings the clientele, then we play nice. Right now, your piss-poor attitude is ruining business and that is something I cannot abide by.

"Now, you have two choices: either you sit down, shut the fuck up, and listen, or you can walk your ass out that door right now and never show your ugly mug around here again. What's it going to be, _boy?"_

There was a war raging within Garret between his pride and his good sense. A thousand cruel insults flashed through his mind—as well as a few choice acts of violence he could easily commit right then and there. But in the end, through his anger, the thought of his mother came to the forefront and good sense won out as he sat, stiff-backed, in the chair situated in front of Varric's oaken desk.

"Good choice," Varric said as he leaned back into his own chair. "Garret, I don't know what happened to you and, frankly, I don't much care. All I do know is that you've always been a good, loyal employee and it would go against my personal sense of honor to throw your ass out on the street now. What I propose is a change in vocation: I want you away from the bar and working in the background."

"One of your thugs, then?" Garret asked sardonically.

"If that's how you want to look at it, then yes. You'll be my front man with Zevran. The Italian has been good to his word thus far, but I would be more at ease having one of my own people running the smuggling gambit with him. This could mean quite a bit of travel, you understand, and I will hold you accountable for any slip-ups. Is this an arrangement you could agree with?"

"Who will run the bar in my place?"

"Isabela."

It hadn't taken much convincing to get Garret to agree. As far as the young man was concerned, he needed some time away from the city—away from the drunken clientele—and Varric's arrangement even held the promise of a possible means to vent his anger should a job go sideways. Varric's choice of replacement had also sealed the deal for Garret since, despite his rebuttal of her calming tactics, Garret had never stopped caring about the prostitute and saw in Varric's designs a way to finally raise her from the occupation he knew she secretly loathed.

That had been nearly a month ago. Winter had laid full claim to New York since then, painting the congested streets of the city in soft blankets of white. It was a harsh season for too many—those left in the deeper slums with barely a roof to their names (others without even that)—but there was a certain grace to it as well for it was as if the cold bite of winter had the power to drive the worst of the gangs underground, at least for longer periods of time. No one wanted to be caught away from the relative warmth of their homes for too long and thus there were fewer pockets to pick; fewer crimes that needed committing.

There was, however, a certain disquiet that had settled over the city and seemed none the less abated with the oncoming of the colder months. The workers of New York—of the world, in fact—were growing more and more restless. Labor Union organization was on a steep rise as membership began to increase at a startling rate—startling, at least, to employers. For everyone else—for everyone who lived, day in and day out, in the bowels of a factory; who worked their fingers to the bone; who witnessed the squalor of the streets firsthand—there was no surprise, only a sense of inevitability. The people were tired and it was only a matter of time before their anger boiled over.

The tension of the city was lost upon Garret, however, who had left with Zevran on a ship to Portugal a few weeks before the first snow. Admittedly, Garret hadn't been completely happy with the new arrangement at first. The responsible part of him had fought against it: after all, who would look after mother while he was gone?

"My darling boy," Leandra had said when Garret had told her the news (or at least a close approximation of what his new job would entail), "you do what needs be done. Don't worry about me: I do have your Uncle, after all. Gamlen may be a bit of a miser, but he can be good company when he wants to be."

"But, well, with Carver and all, I—"

"Hush." There was a flicker of hurt in her kind eyes, but she quickly hid it behind a warm smile. "Your brother will find his own way in time. You must do the same. Who knows? Maybe some traveling will be good for you."

Varric had sealed the deal by offering to deliver Garret's paychecks to the house in the young man's absence. Mother would be provided for and, with her blessing, Garret had set foot on Zevran's ship and experienced the open sea for the first time since he had been a young child escaping the Great War in Europe.

Garret leaned over the starboard side of the ship, watching as a strip of land in the distance slowly grew larger and larger as the waves and wind carried them along. When their trip had begun, Garret had questioned his new partner about his use of such a small vessel. It seemed strange to believe that Zevran would have been able to transport much of anything in such a limited space.

"Ah, but you see, there's a method to my madness! For all appearances, we seem a normal fishing vessel, _sì?_" Zevran motioned to the netting and tools gathered on the deck of the ship. When Garret nodded, he continued: "Well, that is because that is what we are! _Capisci?"_

Garret blinked at him dumbly, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Um, I think you lost me."

Zevran laughed and clapped the young man on the back. "If we are what we appear to be, then there is nothing illegal to make the _autorità _nervous, _sì? _As for space, well, do not worry your head so. _Vieni."_

Garret followed the slight Italian to the prow of the ship. Zevran knelt down and slipped his fingers into a small crevice that was virtually invisible to the naked eye and, with some effort, lifted a section of flooring up, leaving a gap just large enough for a man to fit into.

"After you," Zevran said, motioning to the gap.

There was a squat wooden ladder just inside the dark space beneath and Garret started down it—only to find the edges of the hole quickly closing in around him the further he went in. Chest-deep in the hidden compartment, Garret was stuck. He glared up at Zevran who had fallen back on his rump as laughter shook his slender frame.

"Very funny, Zev," Garret growled.

"_Mi dispiace, amico," _he gasped out between bouts of laughter. "I was not certain if you could fit, but 'twas worth it to try."

"Yeah, yeah. Just get me out of here before I break your little hidey hole."

Once Garret was free, Zevran continued the tour of his incognito ship and within the hour they were sailing away. The Italian seemed more than happy to explain to the young man the mechanisms of his little smuggling operation. Garret tried stubbornly to hold onto his anger, but after a few days in Zevran's company he found himself smiling more, even laughing. Between his on-the-job training of how to sail a ship and the quiet nights beneath the stars as the rocking of the waves lulled him to sleep, Garret found that the trip had become a balm to the raw wounds he had been consistently scratching open for far too long.

Zevran had proved himself pleasurable—if sometimes infuriating—company; Bodahn Feddic and his son, Sandal—the Italian's skeleton crew—had also proven good companions during the long days of sailing. Bodahn ran his own small trading business on the side of his work with Zevran and was always trying to entice Garret with one of the many trinkets or baubles he carried with him. Sandal didn't speak much, but he was always smiling and crafting little bits of jewelry or machinery out of Bodahn's junk that easily matched professional grade merchandise.

Now, as he watched Portugal's coast swell in the distance, Garret found that he was at peace in a way he had never experienced. It had only been a couple of weeks since he had seen the skyline of New York and yet he found that he missed it little; missed even less the fair face that had haunted his dreams for so long (or so he told himself, at least).

"We should arrive in Lisbon within the hour."

Garret turned to where Zevran now leaned against the railing beside him. With sure, practiced movements, the Italian rolled a cigarette in his deft fingers and placed it between his lips before striking a match on the railing and lighting it.

"Lisbon, huh?" Garret said, staring once more at the approaching land. "Why not an Italian harbor?"

Zevran took a long drag on the cigarette before answering: "My homeland is not as welcoming as it once was, I fear. Besides, I have several trustworthy contacts in Lisbon and _Portogallo _is closer, _sì?"_

Garret nodded in understanding, choosing not to press the issue. They stood in silence for a long moment after that, listening to the gentle _slosh _of the waves against the hull of the ship and breathing in the tobacco-tinged salt air. Portugal crept closer and closer as Garret continued to tell himself that he wasn't running away from anything. He was merely…taking a break from it all.

Sure. Just taking a break…

_Wheaton and Smithe's Textiles_

_February 16, 1922_

_3:47 PM_

Carver winced as his baton met the skull of one of the "rioters" gathered outside of the textile mill, the impact of leather-padded lead on skull resounding with a wet _crunch_ as the young man before him slumped to the blood-and-mud slicked street. He stared down at the unconscious rioter, watching as copious amounts of red began oozing out of a rather nasty-looking gash on the young man's brow. Carver felt his stomach turn.

_Is this what I've become? _A part of him wondered, but not for long as another rioter moved into his path—anger blazing in his eyes—and Carver was forced to defend himself.

John Wheaton and Leonard Smithe—the owners of the mill—had called upon the RIIB to help put down what they had described as a "deadly riot" that was threatening to dismantle their base of operations that stood on the outskirts of New York City's bustling hub of industry. It wasn't the first "riot" Carver had been assigned to break up, but it was certainly the least confrontational demonstration that he had seen to date.

Upon arrival, Carver had observed only a motley crew of shoddily-dressed men and women shouting angrily at the looming doors of the mill, some holding poorly crafted signs that said things like "WE ARE NOT ANIMALS" and "WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE." These people did not look like criminals; did not look like violent dissenters threatening the peace of the city. They looked more tired than angry; more poor than dangerous. There were even a few children mixed in among the throng: emaciated bodies clinging to mother's skirts.

Meeran—his loyal "investigators" following close behind—approached the group and started off with the usual formalities, demanding that the people disperse.

"You are all guilty of obstructing business," Meeran announced, thumbs casually looped in his belt as if this were just another cool afternoon. "Vacate the premises now and suffer no further repercussions."

"You can't treat us like this!" one man from the crowd yelled. "We have a right to be heard!"

"By the time I count to three, you lot had better be gone," Meeran continued, acting as if he were the only one speaking. It was a special skill he had, making it seem as if no one else existed so long as he was in charge.

"Tell Wheaton 'n' Smithe to come out thar own selfs!" a woman cried. "We on'y wish t'be 'eard!"

"One."

Several young men stepped up to face the investigators, hands clenched into fists.

"Go back to yer master, dog!" one snarled. "We won' be listenin' t' yer barkin' t'day!"

"Two."

Enraged, one of the rioters stepped up, hand cocked back. Carver tensed, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his baton. When the hand snapped forward, a glob of mud sailed through the air to splash against Meeran's freshly-ironed uniform. Slimy muck now covered the crossed-sword sigil, slithering down to drip onto Meeran's boots—boots that, as Carver knew, the man polished to a proud shine each and every night.

Meeran, who had up to that point been looking at a point above the group of rioters as if they were not even there, slowly lowered his gaze to take in the young man who had thrown the mud. There was a murderous cast to his cold eyes as he hissed the word that would begin the bloodshed, as it always did:

"_Three."_

Chaos broke out in the moments after that as the investigators—batons drawn—surged forward and began beating back the angry crowd. Carver had witnessed Meeran step forward to draw first blood: baton cracking deafeningly across the skull of the demonstrator who had dirtied his uniform. The young man's body slumped to the ground at an unnatural angle, legs twitching spasmodically. Carver knew he would not rise again.

The "battle" was over in a matter of minutes as the rioters, bloody and battered, began their retreat. Carver had one by the collar of his shirt, baton raised high and ready to strike. When he looked down into the young man's eyes, however, Carver realized the rioter was even younger than himself. Terror shone in the darkly-hued pools of the boy's eyes, pleading with him for mercy. It was in that moment that Carver saw his own image reflected back at him: the oppressor; the bringer of nightmares; the unjust one.

Carver's fingers released the boy of their own volition. He seemed too shocked to speak at first, but when he realized that Carver had no intention of pursuing he began blubbering thanks and "good graces" as he quickly scrambled back and away from the blood-splattered battleground. Carver's head bobbed numbly though he could not hear anything above the heavy beating of his own heart.

_Is this what I've become? _His thoughts asked again, eyes following a rivulet of blood that had made its way to the gutter and was now dripping through a grate into the sewers. Around him, his fellow investigators were sifting through the pockets of the fallen for whatever meager bits the poor blokes might be carrying.

"'Ey! Carver!" He looked up to where Horace was waving him over. "C'mere and lookit this!"

Carver felt his stomach churn when he recognized the still body Horace was searching as the one Meeran had felled. The young man's open eyes stared up at the sky, but Carver knew he did not see the clouds; did not see the evidence that winter was not yet over as the first snowflakes began to tumble to the earth.

Without thinking, his feet began to move. Horace continued to call after him, but Carver could not hear him through the ringing in his ears. He needed to get away, far as he could, and _think—_or not think—or _anything_ so long as it was _far away _from the blood-soaked gutters and the glassy eyes of the dead.

For the first time in weeks, Carver thought of home.

Author's Note: I want to apologize for my Italian. I've been dabbling with the language a bit, but not nearly enough to be fluent by any stretch of the imagination. My main model for verb conjugation is Latin so I am assuming that Italian works in a similar manner (as far as translation), though that may be incorrect. But I enjoy Zevran the Italian and I want him to speak at least somewhat in his native tongue, so it is what it is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry for the delay. My classes are really starting to wear me down and my left wrist is currently in a brace (that's what I get for fighting walls…they always win, smug bastards).

I literally have a stack of about thirty books staring me down right now—dogging my dreams and filling my head with the words of ancient, dead historians—and unfortunately this is my last buffer chapter. If I can find some time to breathe, I will try to get some more work done. It just seems to be getting increasingly difficult to transition between 1920s America and Late Republican Rome (not to mention the show Supernatural eating up the little free time that I have…those guys are gonna drag me to Hell with them…).

Excuses out of the way, I hope you enjoy this next installment! It's more a transition chapter than anything, so I apologize for the lack of any real plot development.

Nine

_Upper East Apartments_

_February 16, 6:21 PM_

Carver found himself standing on the stoop of his old home, gazing up at the sprawling apartment block and wondering how much had changed. Was mother doing all right? Had she gotten that renovation in the kitchen she had been talking about? Was Gamlen still a worthless lout?

Was brother doing well?

He sighed—long and gusty, full of resignation—before turning to make his way back down the street. Carver wanted nothing more than to knock on the door and be welcomed home with open arms, but he knew there was something he had to do first.

The night was quiet and cool; the snow continued to fall at its own languid pace. By morning, the streets would be blanketed in white, but for now the soft flakes managed only to lightly paint the dark night with little pinpricks of pale light. As a child, Carver had always loved the snow. He remembered a time when he and his siblings had played in the white until their fingers and the tips of their noses had grown bright red. Oh, how _angry _mother had been, but in a way that was more worry than anything. And it was always Garret who got in trouble, more often than not taking the blame for something one of the twins had done. Even as a child, Garret had had that casual air about him that allowed mother's angry words to seemingly roll off his shoulders like so much rain.

That attitude of his had persisted through Bethany's death…just as mother's blame had.

Carver had almost forgotten about that.

Bethany's death had been…tragic, to say the least. Garret had been placed in charge of their care and Carver had insisted on playing near the factory district. The ground was perfect for playing pirates or knights with all the unused machinery and half-built foundries sticking up in every direction. Garret and Carver had climbed their way up some old scaffolding, pretending that it was the top of a king's tower. Together, the pair had teased Bethany for being unable to climb so high. But the Hawke stubbornness ran in her veins too, and, hiking up her skirts, she began the climb.

The fall wouldn't have been so fatal had the ground not been littered with so much scrap metal.

Carver had hidden in his room after the fact, but he still heard his mother's angry voice through the walls as she screamed and railed at Garret for his carelessness. There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh among the shattering of broken furniture during it all, but no matter how often Carver asked Garret what exactly had happened, his brother would not say. If one looked close enough, however, they would notice a slight limp in Garret's gait that persisted to the present.

The Hawke brothers loved their mother dearly, but Leandra was not the strongest of women emotionally. Without her husband's stalwart support, she had become little more than a brittle shell. Garret had taken it upon himself from a young age to serve as her protector despite the high price he had been forced to pay over the years. Carver had known this fact all along but had never before truly thought about it, taking both his brother's patronage and his mother's undying love for him for granted.

And how had Carver repaid his brother? With ridicule. Hatred. Condemnation.

The crux of it all was the fact that Carver didn't even care about Prohibition; he didn't care if people enjoyed their bootleg liquor or if Garret was the one who served it to them. No…he had gotten behind a cause that meant nothing to him, merely for the sake of spite.

There was a cold grip on the young man's heart as he trudged his way through the settling gloom. Hopefully it wasn't too late…

_The Hanged Man_

_7:34 PM_

Pausing outside the entrance to the bar, Carver looked up at the painted signpost of the Hanged Man. True to its name, there was a rather garishly depicted picture of a man who had been hanged by his feet. The image's hands were tied behind its back, its face red and puffy beneath a high collar. Someone had taken great care to paint the sign, lovingly adding in little details that made the hanged man really _pop._

The tavern itself wasn't all that impressive: old wooden doors on an old wooden frame that seemed just as likely to chase a man off as invite him inside. Carver had only been to the bar one other time before, and even then he had only stayed a few minutes to harass Garret with a message from mother. He remembered how Garret had tried to stay patient—Carver could see the effort in the tight lines of the man's bristled jaw—but still he would not relent. Not until the tavern's large, intimidating bouncer had sidled up beside him and asked him to leave in a voice that was equal parts sincerity and danger.

Stepping through the old doors, the first face Carver saw, of course, was that of gruff Aveline standing guard. She glared at him for a long moment and Carver knew that she was trying to place his face with a name.

"I'm Carver," he said, and recognition clicked instantly in those green orbs.

"Indeed." Her glare did not relax a bit. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to see my brother."

Aveline regarded him warily, as if she was trying to determine the integrity of his words. Such a strange, terrifying woman.

"Garret's not here," she said.

Carver blinked. "Not here? Did he go home already?"

"No."

The word rung with such finality that Carver found himself hard-pressed to find the words that he needed.

"Well, um…when will he be back?"

Before Aveline could answer, a lilting voice behind him called out: "Aveline! Stop torturing the poor boy."

Carver turned to the bar where a beautiful, dark-skinned woman stood smiling at him. He felt his cheeks burn when his eyes were instantly drawn to the sloping planes of her cleavage, and he forced himself to focus on her face. The woman beckoned him closer to the bar; Carver offered Aveline an awkward bow—to which she only grunted—before complying.

Taking a seat, Carver found himself still burning as the supple woman leaned over the bar, her breasts on tantalizing display. He tried to focus on the grains of wood in the bar itself, flushing even hotter when the woman laughed.

"Oh, aren't you a cutie? Garret talked about you, but he never mentioned what a doll you are."

A little ways to his right, a pale-haired man snorted. "Don't torment the boy, wench. He's too young for you."

The woman ignored him as she leaned back and grabbed a couple of short glasses. Carver watched her slender hands as she opened a bottle of some dark liquor and poured a finger's depth each into the glasses before sliding one across the bar to him. She raised the second glass and then paused, watching him. Carver merely blinked at her, utterly confused.

"It's customary to share a drink with new acquaintances," she said, smiling.

"Oh…Oh!" Carver quickly lifted his own glass, staring down at the dark liquid within. Still smiling, the woman reached forward to tap her glass to his before downing the drink in one stiff swallow. Carver moved to follow suit, pressing the rim of the glass to his lips and tipping his head back—only to gasp and splutter as the strong liquor burned its way down his throat.

The woman threw back her head and laughed as the man to his right chuckled into the half-full glass of his own drink while Carver coughed up the harsh alcohol.

"First whiskey, I take it?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

"Y-yes. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, hun." She pulled another bottle from beneath the bar and filled his glass half-way. "Try this instead. Sip slowly."

Carver obeyed hesitantly, taking only the tiniest of tastes. The liquor was still strong, but did not burn nearly as bad as the whiskey had and it sent the flavor of smooth spices dancing across his tongue. Eagerly, he took a second, larger sip. The woman continued to smile at him.

"Fancy the taste of rum, huh? A man after my own heart."

The pale-haired man snorted again and she continued to ignore him. Carver looked between the pair for a moment before focusing fully on the woman once more.

"So…you know my brother?"

"Indeed I do." She extended a slender hand over the bar towards him. "Isabela."

Carver accepted it awkwardly, not quite sure what he should do. "C-Carver."

Still smiling, Isabela retracted her hand and leaned against the bar. "What brings you to the Hanged Man, Carver? I have a feeling that your brother does not know you are here."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with my brother. The…woman at the door said that he's not here…"

"That's correct. Your brother is off on business."

"Oh." Carver looked down briefly at his drink then back up at her. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

Isabela shrugged. "I can't say for sure. Maybe tomorrow? Maybe early next week?"

"Oh. I see."

Isabela watched the young Hawke closely as he stared down at his rum. There was a certain similarity to Garret she could detect in young Carver's mannerisms, but at the same time there was something profoundly different about this young man. Something that Isabela couldn't quite put her finger on. Garret hadn't spoken about his brother often, but the few times he had Garret hadn't been able to keep a trace of sorrow out of his voice. He had confided in Isabela about Carver joining a detective agency and briefly she wondered if this wasn't some kind of sting. But she quashed that thought quickly: even those fools wouldn't be so stupid as to go after those dealers in illegal beverages. They were far too busy bashing heads in for pay; what profit would come from destroying a discreet tavern that few cared to see gone?

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" she asked suddenly, causing the boy to jump.

"Um, well, not…exactly."

_A runaway, then. _Isabela's smile turned warm. "Tell you what, why don't you stay here until your brother gets back? We have plenty of rooms."

Carver stared at her apprehensively. "Are you sure that's ok?"

"I don't see why not. You are family, after all."

"Thank you," he said, offering a nervous smile.

Isabela's generous mood quickly began to darken, however, when she realized something. A sly grin broke out over her lips; catching the look, the pale-haired man groaned.

"Don't taint the boy, wench," he growled.

"Oh, mind your own business, Fen." Turning sly eyes on Carver, she said, "So, this is a night of firsts for you, I gather?"

Carver nodded slowly. "I guess you could say that…"

"Well then, how about one more 'first'?" Not waiting for Carver to reply, Isabela looked past him and waved. He turned just as a young slip of a girl moved to take a seat at the bar beside him, her dress cut just as scandalously low as Isabela's though there was much less breast to reveal.

"Aye?" the girl asked in a heavy Irish accent. "Whot can I do fer ye, Izzie?"

"Merrill, I'd like you to meet Carver. Garret's baby brother."

Before Carver could fully grasp what was happening, Isabela had moved down the bar to stand in front of the pale-haired man, leaving him alone with the young prostitute. Briefly, Carver wondered how it was that his face had yet to burn away completely.

"Garret's brother, indeed?" Merrill turned towards him slightly, a lop-sided smile on her dainty lips. "Well, it's a pleasure t' meet ye."

Carver shook the slim hand she offered. "Y-you too." He gulped nervously. "I…"

Merrill placed a soft finger against his lips, giggling softly. "Dunnae say anot'er word, my dear. Yer safe wit' me."

**Author's Note**: Honestly, I had wanted Merrill's introduction to be a little more fleshed out, but then Isabela took center stage and the story wrote itself the way it wanted to be read. I have little control over it all…my fingers move across the keyboard of their own volition. Besides, I think I've spent enough time (maybe too much?) on Carver's angst. Should be getting back to Garret and his mishaps next chapter.

As for Leandra: I like her character in-game to an extent, but I also found it a bit cruel the way she always seemed to throw blame at Garret (or Marian) for the death of Carver/Bethany as well as the way she fiercely protected the younger sibling from going into the Deep Roads but was all "Off to risk your life to bring back some gold for the family, then, dear? Well, good luck to you! Anything nice you'd like written on your tombstone?" That might be a little cynical, but this is the way I have always envisioned Leandra.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the _long _delay, but such is life. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate the feedback, truly I do.

Honestly, I never really gave Isabela much consideration during the game itself, but in this story…I don't know. She's probably one of my favorites. I just hope I can give her the characterization that she deserves.

As for a Carver/Merrill romance, I don't know how far I'm going to develop that, but I did want to mention it at the very least. Carver's an insufferable prat at times, but the little "romance" with Merrill in-game was absolutely charming. (Also, I initially had a much different plan for Merrill, but then she ended up being written as a prostitute…I don't know what happened. It sounds cliché, but the characters write this story, not me. I'm just here to tap away on the keyboard so the pretty words appear on the screen.)

Ten

_New York Harbor_

_February 18, 10:24 PM_

The prow of their ship broke through the night-darkened waves, seeming to Garret how the tip of a quill pressing through a pool of ink might look. Zevran steered the little vessel expertly, humming a little tune as he maneuvered the ship towards an open port. Bodahn and Sandal moved about the deck tying off ropes and pulling in sails; Garret helped where he could, but for the most part just tried to stay out of the way of the motley crew's routine system.

Zevran steered the ship into a berth and before Garret could blink, Bodahn and Sandal were out on the dock and tying the vessel off. It had been a similar process in Lisbon when they had landed and although Garret had spent much of the voyage trying to learn what he could about sailing, Zevran and his crew always had matters under hand before he could even attempt to help.

"Home sweet home, _sì?"_ The Italian patted Garret on the shoulder as he passed, headed for the trapdoor in the prow of the ship.

For the first time—and he hadn't even realized it—Garret looked up at the tall buildings of New York. He hadn't seen the city in nearly two months, and yet…nothing looked different. There were the same dark shapes, the same foggy sky…the same feeling of being so small, so insignificant, in a world that did not even deign to recognize his existence. When Garret looked upon the vast expanse of America's veritable heartland, he did not see opportunity—he did not see freedom.

If anything, he saw only a cage; not even very well gilded, at that.

"Do you plan on standing around all night, then?" Zevran's voice queried, breaking through the gloom of the young man's thoughts.

Sighing, Garret forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. He wasn't on a pleasure cruise; there was a job to be done. There was always a job to be done.

_Outside the Hanged Man_

_February 19, 1:26 AM_

It had taken them a little under two hours to unload the ship's illicit cargo and transport it via wagon to Zevran's warehouse. Zevran handed the crates up from the hull to Garret, and Garret lowered them over the edge of the ship to Bodahn who stacked them neatly in the same small wagon Zevran, Garret, and Aveline had used the night they had met. Sandal could usually be found sitting on the dock not too far off, feet bare and swinging over the gently lapping waves below. The boy was a hard worker—just like his dad—but there were times when his attention wandered and there was no getting him back on track.

"Took 'im to a doctor once," Bodahn had explained to Garret one night at sea after Sandal, who had been in the middle of swabbing the deck, suddenly began waltzing with the mop. "Might be a few loose screws in the boy's 'ead. Dunnae really know for sure. But, he's a good lad through and through. A good son, even if blood dunnae tie us."

And that was that. Sandal would do his own thing and Garret found that, despite his initial reservations, he was charmed by the boy. Perhaps it was because Sandal seemed so innocent, so removed from the filth of the world. Perhaps…

Zevran brought the wagon to a lumbering stop as they reached the back alley where the Hanged Man's cellar doors waited. Garret silently cast his swarming thoughts to the four winds as he moved to open the double doors set down towards the grimy earth. The pair then began unloading their illicit cargo into the depths of the tavern's cellar, stacking box after box to replenish the room's depleted store. It had been a long winter.

When the last crate was securely tucked away, Garret moved to unhitch the old nag from their wagon while Zevran went to meet with Varric and inform him of their successful venture. The nag—or Nat, as Aveline was fond of calling her—grudgingly followed Garret into her small stable behind the tavern. Garret kept the nag in one eye at all times: all the crew of the Hanged Man had learned never to underestimate the old horse. Nat wasn't a particularly vicious beast, but she was stubborn and a bit spiteful at times. Aveline called her playful since the big Irishwoman was the only person Nat _didn't _periodically bite; Varric called her conniving, especially after she had once taken him off guard with a lazy swat of a back hoof that sent the small man tumbling to the muck. She had yet to do anything _too _horrible to Garret other than nibble on his ears on occasion when he was mucking out her stall. Whichever way a body looked at the horse, though, she was definitely a character.

Sated with a serving of hay and oats, Nat summarily forgot Garret's existence as he patted her side on his way out of the barn. He quickly closed the cellar's double doors and fastened them with a large, sturdy-looking padlock. That done, Garret made his way around the building to the tavern's main entrance, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his mind.

At the door to the tavern, Garret paused. He wasn't sure why, there was just something in the air that had forced him to stop. Wary, Garret took in his surroundings, searching each shadow with the practiced ease of one accustomed to life on the streets. Nothing was out of the ordinary; no one was near. At least so far as he could tell. And yet…something felt _wrong. _Not the kind of "something" one could put a finger on; more a gut feeling than any actual of danger. The city wasn't the same one Garret had left on his sojourn to Portugal. The change wasn't a thing to be seen by the eyes, but rather sensed in the ethereal way that a body seems to know its home.

"Garret?"

A gruff, familiar voice. He turned towards the tavern's door.

Aveline's figure met him, holding the wooden portal open for him. From that uncharacteristic gesture alone, Garret knew something was wrong. The look of uncertainty floating in the green depths of the Irishwoman's eyes only made the feeling more acute.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"You'd best come inside," she said, and then disappeared around the corner of the door before he could protest.

With no other real options—curiosity and apprehension digging their cold fingers into his gut—Garret swiftly entered the tavern behind her. The main room looked much the same as it had upon his departure: wooden tables, smooth wooden floor, long wooden bar. The place was empty, which was a bit odd but not so odd as to cause worry.

Garret turned to where Aveline leaned against the inner doorframe, arms crossed over her muscled chest.

"What's with all the secrecy?" he asked, casting one last glance around the empty room before settling on the forbidding redhead once more.

"Well," Aveline began, "I'm not quite sure how you're going to take the news."

Brow furrowed, Garret mimicked the woman's crossed-arm stance. "You could start by telling me said news. Then we can go from there."

Aveline sighed gustily, eyes sliding closed for a moment. For the first time, Garret found himself wondering when the lines around the woman's mouth had grown so deep. He knew that the Irishwoman held a few years over him, and yet he had never thought of Aveline as that _old. _Looking at her now, with the sparse lamplight barely illuminating the woman's face, Garret found himself seeing a side of Aveline that almostbespoke frailty. _Almost._

When she looked back up at him, her eyes seemed almost apologetic: "Your brother showed up a couple of days ago."

The news struck Garret like a fist to the gut. He blinked at her as the words sunk in. Aveline sighed again.

"He showed up one night out of the blue and has been shacking up with Merrill ever since."

Garret attempted to clear the lump in his throat before asking, "A-and is that where he is now?"

"I assume."

"I see."

For months, Garret had tried not to think about his wayward brother. The pain of betrayal was still far too fresh and glaring, not to mention the guilt. Every time Carver drifted into his thoughts, Garret found that he could no longer picture the minute details of the boy's face; all that Garret saw was a burning _red, _for reasons born of both fury and shame. It was yet another mark against his name, another fault that Mother could use in her fuel against her eldest son. Leandra hadn't said much since Carver's departure, but Garret could see the blame in her eyes every time she looked at him. It was part of the reason he had agreed to accompany Zevran. Part of the reason he found himself wishing for something…else.

It was Aveline's turn to clear her throat to break up the uncomfortable silence that had stretched after the minor revelation. She had witnessed the silent war raging behind Garret's eyes, but, as ever, Aveline was the kind of person who respected the privacy of others. Garret was a longtime acquaintance—perhaps even a friend—but even so, Aveline doubted that he would like any kind of audience to the pain so clearly evident on the weary planes of his face.

"You, uh, could probably go up and see him if you want…"

A visible shudder ran through Garret's body at her words, as if Aveline's voice had violently drawn him out of some deep reverie. He looked up at her, eyes glassy and uncomprehending; instead of speaking, Aveline just waited for her words to sink in.

At last, the fog in his eyes seemed to clear: "No. No, that's all right. I'm sure…it can wait 'til morning." Scrubbing a hand over his face, Garret sighed. "I don't suppose there's an open room up there? I don't think I have the energy to walk home…"

"I have an extra pallet," she said. "If you don't mind that, you can spend the night in my room."

"Thanks, Aveline. I appreciate it."

She reached and squeezed the young man's shoulder with reassuring firmness. "Don't mention it."

Garret smiled wearily at her, the lines of exhaustion and inner turmoil etched across the rough planes of his face. Aveline wondered why she had never been able to see those lines before; perhaps he had been better able to hide them then. But something had happened—was happening—and the walls around Garret's tight self-control were beginning to crumble. Loyalty and love made Aveline hope that she would be nearby when the whole façade finally fell even as they made her fear the day it would.

"Oh, and by the way…"

Garret halted on the stairs leading up to the tavern's rooms, eyebrow cocked as he turned to look over his shoulder at the woman.

"Varric has hired a few new…people," Aveline finished. "He seems to believe that we are in need of new blood to keep this place running."

Confusion furrowed the man's brow. "That's odd. Wouldn't paying _more _prostitutes drain our funds even more?"

Aveline shrugged and was about to answer, when someone else beat her to it:

"Ser Tethras seems to believe that some variety would do well to pick up business."

That voice—familiar, velvety-smooth, haunting, damning and yet so utterly _dead _beneath the embroidered façade—pierced Garret's heart with the force of a javelin. Slowly, _slowly, _he turned back towards the stairwell, eyes lifting (_not wanting to see) _to behold the golden-haired image of a man standing at the top. Honey-colored eyes gazed back him (_so cold) _levelly; Garret had the feeling that he was recognized—known—and yet, at the same time, held in disdain, as of a fly caught in the web of a glutted spider.

"…Anders?" he said, voice barely more than an exhalation of breath.

"My friends and I are quite good at what we do," Anders continued as if Garret had not spoken, "and I agree with Ser Tethras's assessment." He bowed rigidly. "I look forward to working with you, Ser Hawke."

Garret found that it was difficult to draw breath. His lungs were working furiously, expanding and deflating with all the power of a bellows, and yet he couldn't _breathe. _Dark spots were beginning to line the edges of his vision; his head _ached. _Lips moved without sound; fists clenched open and closed without feeling; eyes fluttered without seeing.

"Hawke?" Aveline's voice said behind him, but he was beyond hearing.

Above him, Anders continued to gaze down, implacable. Those honey-colored eyes (_painfully beautiful) _watched him, dispassionate, as Garret found himself quickly beginning to descend into darkness.

_Anders, _he wanted to say—to scream! _Anders, please. Don't do this. I'm…I'm…_

Lucidity vanished, though he didn't know it; legs buckled, though he didn't feel it. All that Garret saw was the darkness closing in around that golden-hued frame of the man who had become his greatest, deepest longing…and his ugliest nightmare.


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven

_February 19, 12:35 PM_

It was not a _dream _that followed Garret into the darkness. No dream could possibly feel so real. The colors were muted—everything tinged in greyish hues of forlorn desire—and the voices were dull, but even so everything seemed so frighteningly _tangible._

Suspended in grey fog, Garret was forced to watch as the different figures from his life marched past him. Some he recognized, some he did not, and still some wore no faces at all. Endlessly, they moved before him, marching towards some distant point that he could not fathom. Garret tried to speak to them, but his voice was nowhere to be found. His lips moved without meaning, throat strained without directed purpose.

_Look at me! _his thoughts screamed at them. _LOOK AT ME!_

On and on they marched. Old friends, distant relatives, minor acquaintances—they all danced before his vision, moving forward with a determined resolve that Garret could not hope to understand. But above all, the stream of people was dominated by the faceless. The unknown.

_Do you not see me? Look at me!_

One from their numbers paused; the others continued to flow around it as of water around a sturdy stone in the path of a river. Slowly, the faceless head turned towards Garret. No eyes, and yet he could _feel _the weight of a gaze settling upon his frantic soul. Faceless, and yet with expression. Unknown, and yet familiar.

_Do you see me? _his thoughts whispered.

The featureless figure moved towards him, away from the marching stream of people.

_Please, talk to me!_

It stopped barely a foot away from Garret, faceless head cocked to the side slightly as if in silent question. Then a voice, soft as wind through a willow, vibrated in his mind:

_You are a long ways from home._

_What do you mean? Where am I?_

The featureless face cast about slowly, looking around at their surroundings with what Garret could only assume was a penetrating understanding of the gray-tinged realm. When it finally focused on him once more, Garret sensed that he was being mocked.

_What will you do? _it pondered inside his mind. _It should be an interesting journey…_

_What is that supposed to mean? _Garret demanded, but the faceless figure was already turning away, already rejoining its brethren.

_No! Stop!_

One last glance—if it could be called that—over its shoulder, and Garret swore he saw the thing _wink _before it melded back into the endlessly marching crowd. He screamed after it, struggled against the unseen bonds that held him, railed against the injustice of it all—in vain.

"…_et…"_

A distant voice, drifting through the gray ether.

"_Garret…"_

Could it be…no, not possible.

"_Garret, it's time…"_

"Bethany?" he croaked, voice released from whatever prison had held it before.

"_Come on back…"_

The sun shone strongly through the lone window in the cramped tavern room. Bright gold light pierced Garret's eyes as he cracked them open, stinging with a pain that was both unexpected and yet wholly welcomed. He blinked through the ache, trying to clear the fuzzy haze that seemed to have descended over his gaze. When the world around him became clear at last, one name floated from the depths of Garret's groggy mind to match the face staring down at him:

"Carver."

The younger Hawke tried a lop-sided grin. "Hey."

Never once taking his eyes off his brother, Garret forced his aching body to sit up on the bed he lay in. He leaned back against the headboard, grateful for the feel of the solid wood behind him. It would serve as an anchor and a reminder that this was all real, no longer a dream_ (if it was a dream)._

Carver squirmed under the intense glare Garret pinned him with, hands fidgeting in his lap and eyes darting about as if checking his avenues of escape. Not that Garret blamed him for that much, at least. Bright blue orbs continually met the elder Hawke's stern golden gaze, nervous and frightened and so full of uncertainty. After a short while of the close scrutiny, the younger man finally snapped:

"What?! If you want to say something, then say it! Don't just stare like that!"

"I was waiting," Garret said, hoarse voice chilled.

"Waiting? What for?"

Growling, Garret swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body didn't feel as if it had been immobile for more than a few hours, but the exertions of the night before had left his muscles sore. The _other _pain…well, that would have to be saved for closer study at another time.

Hands clenching the bedframe beneath him, Garret turned his head to level a cold glare on his brother. "Is 'hey' all you can really think to say? After everything that's happened? The way you hurt Mother and have kept her worrying all this time without even a simple _letter _to let us know you're alive, and all you can say is 'hey' like some back-alley street urchin?"

Carver's face had turned considerably pale; it took him several attempts to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"W-well, I—"

"Forget it." Garret rose shakily to his feet, hands moving to smooth the creases in his clothes. "I don't want to hear your excuses. Honestly, I don't even want to _look _at you right now, let alone talk to you."

"Brother, please—"

Garret whirled on him in a wide-eyed fury, grasping the collar of Carver's shirt and pulling the boy clear out of his chair. Face-to-face, Garret stared down at his brother, knowing that he looked murderous from the fear evident in the boy's eyes and yet unable to care.

"_Don't _call me that!" he hissed. "You haven't earned the right!" Angrily, he shoved Carver back. "I called you brother once, you should recall. And how did you repay me?"

"Please, I—"

"With betrayal!" Garret roared. "You turned your back on me—on your family—all for some stupid notion of _justice! _Well, tell me _brother, _did you find what you were looking for? Did you find the righteous _fucking _path?"

Silence stretched between them as Garret continued to seethe and Carver regarded the floor with a stony focus. Outside, the sounds of shuffling feet—probably brought about by Garret's raised voice—echoed beyond the door, perhaps waiting for any sign of fighting before whoever stood past the wooden portal decided to intervene. Garret continued to stare at his brother, waiting for the boy to say something. He wasn't sure what he expected; all that Garret knew was the fact that his anger had been unleashed and unless Carver said something truly convincing, that fury would be directed at him once again.

At last, Carver lifted his gaze from the floor. Staring into the boy's eyes, Garret saw not the stubborn indignation he expected; instead, he saw shame. Carver began in a trembling voice full of unshed tears:

"No, Garret. I didn't find anything righteous where I went. You were right, as always. I am a fool." A single tear slid down the boy's cheek and he quickly scrubbed it away. "All I found were lies and greed and death. I thought…I thought that I could do something good. I _wanted _to do something good." More tears began to fall, this time unheeded. "I wanted to prove you wrong…but I also wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted Mother to be proud of me."

Carver raised his red-rimmed eyes, steadfast determination overcoming the deep-seated shame. "I came here to beg your forgiveness for the way we parted. I didn't want it to be like that. But I will not apologize for trying_. _I did what I thought was best. I may have been wrong, but I don't owe you an apology for _that."_

The brothers regarded one another for a long time in the stillness of the room. Bit by bit, Garret found his anger leaching away. He had held onto his resentment for so long—had fed it and coaxed it to grow—that he wasn't sure what to do now that it was slipping away. For so long, Garret had thought of his brother as nothing more than a spoiled, self-righteous brat—which, in some ways, he still was—and had never taken the time to truly consider how Carver must have felt all those years living beneath the dark shadow that Garret cast.

Garret was far from a saint or a hero; if anything he was barely above a "villain." And yet…he had always seen Carver as the little boy from childhood, crying because Bethany had stolen his toy sword. He remembered the little boy that followed him like a loyal hound, always eager to be in the middle of his big brother's business. Garret had taken it for granted that Carver would always look up to him, always follow the example that Garret did his best to set.

Garret studied his brother closely, tracing the lines of tragedy in the young man's face that had not been there before. When had his shoulders grown so broad? When had he become a man? Every tensed muscle in his body relaxed, leaving Garret a slumped, pathetic figure in the middle of the room. A wry smile strained at the edges of his lips.

"I see," he murmured.

Carver let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Are we…okay?"

"No, brother, I don't think we'll ever be 'okay.'" Garret lifted his eyes just in time to see the crestfallen look that descended on Carver's face and he forced a more sincere grin. "But we'll get by all the same. That is the Hawke way after all, right?"

Carver returned the gesture, only slightly hesitant. "Yeah, I guess it is."

_The Hanged Man_

_1:18 PM_

Isabela pressed her ear against the door as close as she could manage. The most she could make out were muffled voices and the occasional mangled word; Garret's outburst had been rather clear, but now the brothers were speaking much too quietly for her to hear. Behind her, Merrill shifted nervously; Serendipity leaned on the wall next to the door, the look on his face reminiscent of smug amusement.

Initially, Isabela had been a bit apprehensive about Varric's new hires—even though the whole thing had been her idea—due for the most part to Garret's connection to the trio's unofficial leader. But she had to admit that, of all the fairy-types she had seen throughout the city, Anders and his lot were certainly some of the most appealing, and it was appeal that they needed to draw in a wider clientele.

That didn't mean, however, that Isabela got along with the golden-haired man. He was pleasant in a professional way, but there was something altogether detached about his personality that made him seem so damned _cold. _Isabela would have put money that his attitude was connected in some way to Garret's increasingly soured behavior. Her friend hadn't been the same since Anders had come onto the scene; watching Garret go from somewhat "normal" to bashfully happy to a broken mess had affected her more than Isabela wanted to admit.

"I dunnae think we should be eavesdroppin'," Merrill said, cheeks flushed a light shade of pink shame.

"If they didn't want us to listen in, Garret should have kept his voice down," Isabela replied matter-of-factly.

"Mhm," Serendipity said, lips curled in a lazy grin. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the man's murderous rage and the fact that none of us want to be cleaning blood off the walls."

Merrill gasped; Isabela gave him a sharp look.

"Keep your mouth shut," she snapped.

Serendipity chuckled. "Oh, I'm shaking in my slippers!" He pushed off from the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he continued to regard Isabela with that infuriating, smug little smirk. "Ignore the truth all you want, sweetheart, but that doesn't make it any less true. That man is a killer through and through. You can see it in his big dumb eyes."

"If that's so true," Isabela said, voice a low growl, "then why agree to work here? You knew before you came that Garret is a trusted employee."

He shrugged, completely nonchalant. "A job is a job, sweetheart. The perks of this job—" he waved his hand, taking in the tavern's upper floor and its rooms—"just happen to be a better deal than I've ever been offered. Working on the streets holds just as much danger as does working alongside a killer. The only difference is that at least here I know the face of the one I should be wary of."

"That's enough, Serendipity."

The trio turned to where Anders had suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. He was dressed in men's clothing, shirt and trousers, and held a small bag in his arms. His golden hair was pulled back into a half horse-tail to keep it out of his face; his eyes were hard and cold as always, regarding each of them in turn before settling quite firmly on Serendipity. The latter's smug attitude had vanished, replaced now by something that bordered on fear.

"A-Anders," Serendipity said, swallowing nervously. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," he replied.

"Oh. Well…good. I'll…go see if Jethann needs any help."

Anders nodded once, eyes following the fairy's retreating form until he disappeared into a room. His gaze then slid over to Isabela, the emotion in those honey-colored depths completely unfathomable.

"I have a few things here that should help Garret recover a bit more quickly," Anders said before handing Isabela the bag which was full of sweet-smelling herbs and food. "Would you make sure he gets this?"

Isabela accepted the bag without a sound, mind working furiously to try and divine the man's true motive. Anders didn't wait for a verbal response; he merely inclined his head, thanked her, and started back down the stairs.

"Wait!"

He stopped two steps down, turning slightly to look back up at her.

"Why are you doing this?" Isabela asked.

Anders smiled and their eyes locked together for a brief instant. Brief, and yet so charged with heart-rending emotion that Isabela found it was difficult to breathe. Anders had been a closed book from the day he had appeared at the tavern; Isabela had tried every trick she knew to get some kind of emotional response out of him, but the most she ever received for her efforts was an empty smile or a few cold words of rebuke. Nothing _real._ Until now: the raw emotion in Anders's eyes spoke to a part of Isabela that the woman had thought she had buried long ago in the recesses of her mind. A kind of raw, throbbing pain that never really went away.

He said nothing, but there was nothing that needed to be said. When he turned and continued along his way without a word, Isabela didn't stop him. There were certain things she would never understand about the silent message he had shared in that brief moment, but Isabela had understood enough to know not to pursue the man.

"Izzie? Oh dear! Izzie, what's wrong?"

Isabela looked over at Merrill, confused—until she realized that her cheeks were wet. Reaching up, Isabela smeared at a line of tears that had come unbidden to her eyes. She stood in shocked silence; she couldn't remember the last time she had cried.

Merrill reached out to dab at Isabela's face with a handkerchief, worry etched over the supple planes of her young face. "Should I go 'n' find Varric?"

"No, kitten. I'll be fine." Isabela gave the girl a reassuring smile before turning away from the stairwell and back towards the door where the Hawke brothers were still cooped up, drying her eyes before she grasped the door's brass handle. "Let's see how the boys are doing, shall we?"


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve

_The Hanged Man_

_March 12, 9:23 PM_

The Hawke brothers took some time to shore up old wounds, sharing a room at the tavern and talking long into the night about the paths their lives had taken them during their months of separation. Varric allowed the pair to stay free of charge on the condition that each pulled his own weight during the tavern's working hours, which were gradually getting busier.

Thanks to Zevran and his team, the tavern was now quite well equipped with a varied stock of alcohols—many of which could not be found anywhere else in the city, since few other illicit taverns had a bootlegger with ties to Western Europe. Most nights, the Italian could be found drinking his fill at one of the Hanged Man's back tables, a prostitute on each arm and a song on his lips; some nights, he played the suave co-host who charmed patrons with his wit and smooth, accented English that made visitors feel as if they had wound up somewhere exotic and exciting. Varric kept a close eye on the man, but overall appeared to be quite pleased with his deal.

There were some patrons who mourned the loss of Isabela as a "working girl," but the woman had proven herself an apt bartender. Truly, her presence behind the bar—still wearing the same low-cut dresses and flirtatious smiles—had helped business pick up exponentially. Many men came just to sit at the bar and leer at her with abject longing. Isabela played the game like the expert that she was, bewitching her customers time and again before asking them if they'd like a refill or "Here, why not try this one? It's only a few cents more!" Carver worked as her "assistant," delivering drinks to tables and fetching whatever Isabela needed from the store room below. Garret found it ironic that his brother—the stalwart "defender of justice"—was now working in an illegal tavern, but he never said anything about it lest he wound the young man's pride.

Varric's new hires worked their magic as well, enticing patrons left and right to take a dip in the "forbidden." Not everyone was receptive to their advances, but the tavern had picked up several new customers simply _because _the fairies were now in residence. One thing that Garret noticed, however, was the fact that Anders did not seem to ever accept customers. He waltzed about the tavern floor in full dress—hauntingly beautiful in a way that no woman could be—and flirted endlessly with the Hanged Man's many customers, but not once did Garret see the blonde retire to his room with a starry-eyed man in pursuit.

In a way, that fact made him feel relieved—not that he cared. Or should care, anyways.

On the nights when Garret and Zevran were not out smuggling more product into the cellar's stores, Garret served alongside Aveline as a bouncer of sorts. With the new variety of customers, squabbles seemed to be breaking out more frequently than they had before when the tavern had been a more private affair. An argument would break out and Aveline would move in to demand—in the _nicest _way possible—that the fools stop right then and there or find themselves ass-up in a gutter. If the patrons agreed with her reasonable demands, she would calmly move back to her post at the front door; if not, then the fight would begin.

"Fight" wasn't exactly the right word, since it presupposed an equal footing. There was nothing even about drunken fools going up against the steel-muscled bodies of Garret and Aveline, both of whom had been honed for violence in the streets since they had been young. Most "fights" ended within a matter of moments with Garret's fist-print on some poor fool's eye or nose and Aveline's boot-print on his rear as he was ejected into the streets. From there, Fenris or one of his loyal partners would arrest the bloke and march him off to the local precinct's squalid jail. When the officer returned, he was greeted with his drink of choice as thanks.

Truly, the system was nigh-perfect. Garret found himself smiling more and more—even laughing. The raw wound that Anders had left within him still throbbed at times, but Garret found that the more he worked alongside the fairy—however indirect—the more he began to feel comfortable in the man's presence.

One night, the pair found themselves sharing a table in the back of the tavern. Garret had just finished ejecting a rather large, unruly drunken man, receiving a hard elbow to the jaw for his efforts. Once things had quieted down, Garret had taken a seat to nurse the growing bruise on the side of his face. After a few moments, Anders had appeared with his first-aid box under one arm. He was dressed in men's clothing that night, hair pulled back in a part horse-tail to keep it out of his unpainted face. Somehow, he still managed to look radiant even in simplicity. (Not that Garret noticed, of course.)

"Let me see," Anders said as he took a seat next to Garret, laying the box on the table in front of him.

"'S fine," Garret grumbled.

Anders rested a warm hand on his arm, honey-colored eyes gentle as he quietly repeated: "Let me see."

After all this time—all the heartbreak and hurt—Anders was still able to bewitch him without even trying. Slowly, Garret lowered his hand and the cold pint of beer he had been holding against the aching curve of his jaw. Anders's smooth hand immediately replaced it, ever-so-gently touching the darkening bruise. Garret knew Anders was assessing the extent of the damage, but it didn't keep the heat from rising to his cheeks or pooling in his lap at the contact.

Anders made a _tsking _sound with his tongue, fingers moving away from Garret's face as he began rummaging through his supplies.

"You're lucky it's not broken," Anders said, pulling a pair of vials—one milky white, the other a dull orange—from his box. "But I'll bet that bruise doesn't feel too good all the same."

Garret shrugged. "It'll heal."

"Indeed."

Anders mixed a portion from each vial in the palm of his hand, the mixture turning a kind of light orangeish-brown. Calmly, he ordered Garret to turn his head so the injured jaw was fully in view.

"Now hold still," Anders ordered as he began applying the paste.

Every muscle in Garret's body seized up as Anders's fingers stroked along the flesh of his face. It hurt, of course, but it was the kind of pain that sent stripes of white-hot pleasure straight to Garret's groin because it was _Anders _touching him. He still remembered their "fight" of course; he remembered the way Anders had dismissed him, seeming so cold. But no matter how much Garret had resented the image of Anders turning his back on him, Garret couldn't change the way he truly felt. It was a feeling that had been born during their first meeting; time had only allowed it room to grow.

But he also remembered the hard reality check. Not only of what Anders was, but of what had been done to him. The anger that had been ignited at that thought all those months ago still burned deep within Garret, still demanded satisfaction.

"There," Anders said, lowering his hand. "Assuming you don't wipe it off, that should help the bruise heal a bit more quickly—"

Garret's instincts acted before his rationale could stop him: leaning forward, he cupped the back of Anders's head and pulled the blonde's face close to meet his waiting lips. The firm pressure of Anders's lips—not resisting, but not exactly compliant, either—beneath his own sent Garret's heart to fluttering. The touch was chaste and short, but it had the power to bring back the memory of their first passion-fueled kiss to the forefront of Garret's mind. When he pulled back, he stared down into Anders's honey-colored eyes which were still wide with shock and…something else.

"I'm sorry," Garret murmured, hand still cupping the back of the blonde's head. "I'm sorry for how I acted."

Anders stared at him, mute. Garret sighed and moved his hands to his lap, clasping his fingers tightly together.

"I…I can't think straight when you're around," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "There's something about you…it brings out the worst in me." Garret paused, realizing what he had just said. "T-That's not—what I mean is—I—"

Smooth fingers rested over his blubbering lips, silencing him.

"It's all right, Garret," Anders said, a small smile on his beautiful face. He lowered his fingers to rest on the tightly clasped hands in Garret's lap. Reflexively, Garret opened his fingers to receive them, carefully holding the alabaster palm between his own rough ones.

"Anders," he began again, forcing himself to look into those bewitching eyes as he spoke, "since the day we met, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You haunt my dreams. But you also are in my…blind spot, I guess."

Anders cocked his head to the side in question. "What do you mean?"

"W-well…ever since I was kid, I've had this…darkness in me. That's what my father called it, anyways. He had it, too. We don't know where it comes from, but I've always had a hard time controlling my anger. My…my _fury. _Remember that night we met? When those punks tried to mug you?"

Anders nodded.

"Yeah, I don't remember any of that. One minute, I'm seeing you in danger and the next…you're trying to calm me down. The same thing happened with my brother not too long after that… I nearly killed him, you know? If mother hadn't knocked me out…"

Garret sighed deeply, eyes gazing sightlessly down at the slender palm resting in his lap.

"When I realized what had happened to you…well, I went into that same sort of rage, I think. There's no controlling it, really. Had you told me who did that to you," he raised his eyes then, full of a deadly promise that sent a chill down Anders's spine, "I would have hunted them down then and there. I would have murdered them without remorse."

There was no exaggeration, no threat, just the cold truth. A strange truth, but no less terrifying. Anders regarded the young man for a long moment, watching as the truth slowly bled out of his gaze to be replaced with a deep-seated exhaustion that made the lines around Garret's eyes seem deeper than they should be for a man his age.

"I'm sorry," Garret reiterated, releasing Anders's hand so that he could take a draught of his beer. "I just…wanted you to know that."

Slow and smooth, Anders rose to his feet. Garret watched him with a look that said he expected the blonde to walk away—that it wouldn't surprise him. It was a look of resignation, one that did not fit the contours of the young, grizzled face at all. So it was a complete shock when, instead of turning, Anders moved closer. With haunting grace, he moved to straddle Garret's lap, arms wrapped loosely around the back of the younger man's neck. Honey-colored eyes bored into his soul, moving closer and closer until their lips finally touched—this time in a true kiss.

Garret's arms wrapped around Anders's slender back and crushed him close as their kiss deepened into something full of pent-up passion. Teeth and tongues clashed, struggling for dominance. It was a half-hearted fight, really; it didn't matter who won, so long as it never _stopped. _The ointment on Garret's face smeared across Anders's but neither of them cared. Every one of Garret's senses was filled with the heady essence of _Anders _and he knew nothing else—didn't _want _to know anything else—at that moment.

When they finally broke apart to breathe, Garret found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the lust-darkened face hovering mere inches above him. Never in his life had he wanted anything more than the man in his arms just as never before had he been willing to kill for someone who was not family. They were not in the Hanged Man—they were not even in New York. In that moment, they were in a world that had been created solely for the two of them. A world that hummed with Anders's voice; sent the sweet smell of Anders on gentle breezes; glowed with the light of Anders's eyes…

"Don't stop now," Isabela's voice broke into the momentary reverie.

The pair turned to look at where the bartender—as well as the rest of the tavern's occupants—were staring at them, many wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Garret felt his face beginning to burn hotly. Most of the girls—as well as Serendipity—had gone upstairs long ago, but Jethann was still moving about the room and was the lone hostile presence regarding the pair. Carver stood behind the bar, looking as if someone had just punched in him the solar-plexus.

"Oh, please don't mind us, you two," Isabela said, leaning against the bar with her chin resting in one upturned palm while her other hand gently fanned the air around her face. "Carry on."

Fenris snorted. "It would be just like you to get all hot and bothered." The officer had turned just enough to see the pair, but otherwise looked the same smug, grim figure as always.

Isabela ignored him. "Go on, Hawke," she said encouragingly. "Slip a hand up his shirt or down his trousers. If you need some help—"

"Isabela!" he blurted, face completely red now.

Anders chuckled above him, carefully extricating himself from Garret's hold. Shamefully, Garret did his best to mask the raging erection that was pressing against the fabric of his trousers by turning towards his table, gripping the sides of his pint with white-knuckled concentration. Anders took the seat he had been in before, winking at Garret before waving for a drink.

Isabela started to hand Carver a glass of brandy, but the boy had yet to move—let alone blink—and so, with a shrug and a knowing smile, she carried the glass over to the table herself. Anders accepted the drink with a quiet word of thanks and Isabela took the opportunity to perch on the edge of their table, leaning over to leer at Garret with a wolfish grin on her lips.

"What's the matter, Hawke?" she asked, voice lightly mocking. "You seem a little…flustered."

"Shut up, Izzie," he growled, staring with a determined focus at his beer and nothing else.

"Oh, but you're so _darling, _Hawke! How can I resist?"

"Don't be too hard on him," Anders said, sipping at his brandy. "Wouldn't want to scar his poor, innocent soul, after all."

Garret—who had been in the middle of taking a drink—began to splutter, spitting beer everywhere and spilling a good portion of what was left in his pint on his own lap. Isabela and Anders roared with laughter, the former pounding her fist on the wooden surface of the table while the latter pounded on Garret's back to help clear his lungs. The tavern's other patrons went back to their own business though many continued to cast furtive glances over at the table, some in judgment, others in curiosity.

Overall, however, it was a moment of peace the likes of which none of them had experienced in a long while. As the night wore on, Garret and Anders continued to find one another's company time and again, sitting close enough to touch knees without appearing _too _conspicuous, or sharing a furtive glance across the room when business separated them. No matter what came, Garret knew that the sheer happiness that had settled within his soul would not soon be unseated.

Or so he believed at the time.

**Author's Note: **Sorry, kind of a half-assed attempt at "foreshadowing." I actually started writing this with a _much _different ending in mind, but, as usual, shit happens. The feel-good stuff won't last long (as I'm sure you can presume).

When I started this story, I had a pretty good idea of where I wanted it to go and where I thought it would probably end. Now, with so much time gone by, the story has taken on a much, much different flavor. So I guess we'll just see where things go from here.

As for the whole "anger" thing, I know it sounds kind of (dumb) weak, but it's my attempt at transferring the "mage" idea into a modern-AU. It's not perfect, but the mark on Garret is what singles him out from the rest of society, in a way. I'm not good at explaining this shit. If anyone has a better way of putting it, I'm all ears. But for now, it is what it is. (Oh, and I try to proofread these chapters before posting them, but if "Garret" ever reads "Garrus" I am sorry. I have a turian-obsession and the names are too damn similar.)

And a big "thank you" to my reviewers. I am glad you are enjoying the story. I really hope that I can continue to please and not start word-vomiting everywhere.

If anyone would like to chat with me or if you have any good ideas for the latter portions of this story, feel free to join me on Tumblr. (My url is in my profile.)


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